The Secrets Of Ghosts

Step back into the magical world of Pendleford with Sarah Painter’s new book The Secrets of Ghosts. Don’t miss the magical, heart-warming story from the bestselling author of The Language of Spells!

On her twenty-first birthday Katie Harper has only one wish: to become a real Harper woman. Mystical powers are passed down her family generation after generation — some even call them witches — yet every spell Katie attempts goes disastrously wrong.

When her magic does appear, it’s in a form nobody expected and suddenly Katie is thrown into a dangerous new world with shadowy consequences. For the realm of the deceased is not as peaceful as she once thought. The dead are buried with their secrets and only Katie can help the ghosts of the past finally find peace.

If that is what they are looking for…

The Secrets of Ghosts

Sarah Painter

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014

Copyright © Sarah Painter 2014

Sarah Painter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © February 2014 ISBN: 9781472054807

Version date: 2018-10-30

Sarah Painter has worked as a freelance journalist, editor and blogger for the last thirteen years, while juggling amateur child-wrangling (aka motherhood) with her demanding Internet-appreciation schedule (aka procrastination).

Born in Wales to a Scot and an Englishman (very nearly a ‘three men walked into a bar’ joke), she now lives in Scotland with her husband, two children and two cats. She loves the work of Joss Whedon, reading in bed, salt and vinegar crisps, and is the proud owner of a writing shed.

Sarah gives writing advice at www.novelicious.com and writes about craft, books and writing at www.sarah-painter.com

Acknowledgements

This book put up a bit of a fight and it truly wouldn’t exist without the encouragement and editorial support of Sally and Victoria at HQ Digital.

Thank you, also, to my wonderful agent, Sallyanne Sweeney, for her continuing enthusiasm and guidance.

I’m so grateful to all my friends and family for their understanding while I wrestled with this book, and to Holly and James for putting up with ‘Deadline Mum’ with love and good grace.

Finally, thank you to my brother, Matthew, for the pep talks and delicious beer.

For Dave, with love.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Endpages

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

Katie Harper closed her eyes as the last lines of ‘happy birthday’ finished and blew out the candles on her cake. She concentrated with every ounce of her being, and wished more fervently than she’d ever wished before. More fervently than when she’d been in the middle of her horse phase and been hoping for a pony. More strongly, even, than when she’d thought she’d been in love with Luke Taylor and had tried her first real spell. She squeezed her nails into her palms and bit the inside of her cheek to provide a spark of necessary pain, biting hard enough to draw blood. Wishes could come true. There was magic in thought and intention. Katie knew this and when she opened her eyes, she expected the world to have changed.

It hadn’t.

The disappointment thumped through her. She saw a flicker of concern on her aunt Gwen’s face and hastily slapped a smile in place.

She kept the smile while the cake was cut, while her uncle Cam gave her a hug and a cheque, and while she thanked everyone in the little group for coming.

Her face was beginning to ache by the time her mum and dad were saying goodbye. Her mum kissed her on both cheeks and apologised for the millionth time for rushing away. ‘It’s an early start tomorrow,’ she said. ‘And you know I get travel sick.’

‘I know, it’s fine.’ Ruby and David were going on a cruise, their third in two years. They were taking their duties as empty nesters seriously and, honestly, Katie couldn’t blame them. She hadn’t been the easiest teenager to live with. She hugged them both, inhaling the scent of Ruby’s perfume and moisturiser. ‘I’m not staying late, either. I’m working tomorrow.’

‘If you’re sure,’ Ruby said, but she was already halfway out of the door.

‘Positive.’ Katie was picking up every extra shift going at The Grange and, truthfully, didn’t really feel like celebrating her twenty-first at all. Coming into her power. Now, that would be a day worth shouting about.

Katie followed her parents to the door, waving as they walked down the garden path and got into their silver Audi. Gwen had lined the path with candles in jam jars and strung tiny lights through the trees and hedges in the garden.

‘You’re working too hard. I don’t like it,’ Gwen said, coming up behind Katie and handing her a plate.

Gwen’s tradition when it came to birthday cakes was to produce different flavour combinations and you had to guess what they were. Katie had caught a whiff of lime when she blew out the candles and she was expecting something sweet to counteract the acidity so the honey wasn’t a surprise. There was something spicy in there, too, but she wasn’t sure what. She took another bite and let it dissolve in her mouth.

Gwen was looking at her expectantly.

‘Cardamon?’ Katie said.

‘Close.’ Gwen shook her head. ‘Cumin.’

Katie struggled to keep her face neutral. She was rubbish at the herbal stuff. What kind of witch was rubbish with herbs? A crap one, that was what.

Gwen was still talking about her birthday plans. ‘You only turn twenty-one once. At least tell me you’re going out for a wild night with your friends later. Clubbing or something.’

‘It’s almost ten already,’ Katie said, then felt embarrassed. Lots of people went clubbing at ten o’clock at night. Maybe not in Pendleford, but still.

Later, picking her way through the candle-strewn path, she tried to rationalise. Her birthday was an arbitrary deadline, a day like any other. There was no real reason to expect her powers to come in on her twenty-first, any more than there had been on her sixteenth or eighteenth, either. She’d held real hope for her nineteenth — her final teenage year — but, truly, there was no reason to believe that it wouldn’t happen tomorrow or next month or on a random rainy Thursday in October. She sat on the wooden bench at the bottom of Gwen’s garden. There was no need to panic.

‘What are you doing?’ Anna had snuck up behind Katie. She was carrying a glass of sparkling wine and a concerned expression.

‘Panicking,’ Katie said. What if she didn’t take after Gwen after all? What if she was actually just like her mother, Ruby? While her grandmother could read fortunes and Gwen could find lost things, Ruby was about as magical as a bowl of cereal.

‘I’m having a mid-life crisis,’ Katie said, shifting over to make room for Anna.

‘You’re too young for that.’ Anna sat down. ‘Quarter-life, maybe. Although, personally, I’m planning to live to one hundred and fifty.’

Katie forced a smile. It was nice of Anna to try and cheer her up. ‘Have you tried the cake, yet?’

‘Twice. I still have no idea. So, what’s the crisis about?’ Anna said. ‘You don’t want to work at The Grange for the rest of your natural born life?’

‘God, no.’

Anna laughed. ‘Me, neither. I’m going to open my own place. One day.’

‘Are you?’ Katie was surprised. Anna was a brilliant waitress: competent and quick and always smiling. She never seemed dissatisfied but then, Katie knew, she didn’t know her all that well. And, of course, you never knew what was really going on inside people.

‘What?’ Anna looked at her sideways. ‘You think I can’t do it?’

‘You’d be brilliant. You’re so organised.’ Katie nudged her. ‘Unlike say, for instance, me.’

‘That’s true. I might not even hire you as a server. You’re a bit rubbish.’

‘Charming,’ Katie said, mock offended. ‘And on my birthday, too.’

Cam had followed Gwen into the garden and Katie watched as he put his arms around her. Gwen leaned back against him, twisting her neck so that they could kiss.

‘Your aunt and uncle are really loved up, aren’t they?’ Anna said, noticing the floor show.

‘Sorry,’ Katie said, although she didn’t know why she was apologising.

‘At least someone is getting some,’ Anna said. ‘I’m in my prime, here. It’s a crime not to be using this.’ She indicated her body.

‘I think women hit their prime really late. Like in their thirties or something.’

‘I’m not waiting that long to have sex.’

Katie laughed. Katie had been really touched when Anna had asked to come to her party. They worked together at The Grange, and had only known each other for a few months. Most of Katie’s friends had dispersed. They’d gone to university or London or on year-long round-the-world trips. A couple might still have been in Bath, but Katie had moved to Pendleford and, truthfully, not made all that much effort to keep up with anyone from school. As a result, Anna was probably her closest friend, but Katie assumed Anna had a battalion of other mates who, rightfully, came above Katie in ranking for time and energy.

Gwen said she had trust issues, but, as Katie liked to reply, she’d earned them.

She watched her party. Figures moved in the shadows at the edges of the garden, away from the lights. Gorillaz came on and Shari began dancing on her own in the middle of the lawn. She was the kind of person who could get away with things like that. The kind of person who got called a ‘free spirit’ and who always knew where the parties were happening and had exotic boyfriends who made films.

‘Is that your flatmate?’ Anna said, gesturing to Shari.

‘Ex-flatmate,’ Katie said. Shari was nice, but Katie had discovered that ‘free spirit’ translated to ‘no boundaries’ and she’d been relieved when Shari had decided to go and live with her latest boyfriend, Liam.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Anna said.

‘Don’t be,’ Katie said, deadpan. ‘If she hadn’t moved out, I might’ve killed her.’

Anna frowned and Katie wondered if her tone hadn’t been jokey enough. She opened her mouth to explain, but Anna had already moved on.

‘This place is amazing,’ Anna said. She gestured to Gwen’s enormous vegetable patch, which spanned the side of the house. ‘Have you seen what your aunt is growing? Aubergines, peppers, chillies. How does she—?’

‘It’s been really hot this year,’ Katie said. She believed in honesty and never tried to hide her family’s peculiarities, but, equally, sometimes it was nice not to endure a double take, a disbelieving look. She usually went with saying as little as possible. As long as it wasn’t an outright lie, she wasn’t breaking her vow of honesty.

‘Another of her special abilities?’ Anna said. ‘That is so cool.’

Of course, this was Pendleford. It was common knowledge that the Harper family had certain abilities. If you needed to find something that couldn’t be found, if you needed good advice, or a herbal remedy that would work when nothing from the GP had helped, you went to see Gwen. Katie wanted to follow in Gwen’s footsteps; she just needed to find her own power, her raison d’être. She put down the empty cake plate and tried to look happy for the party guests, for Anna, for Gwen. It wasn’t their fault she was a massive failure.

*

The next day, Katie still felt out of sorts and the flat was cold and empty. She almost wished Shari were still there, walking around in her underwear while talking full volume into her mobile. Or, maybe not. What the place really needed was a cat, but the lease didn’t allow pets. Not even when Katie had explained that it was vital for her work. Every witch needed a familiar.

She lay on the sofa and tried to relax, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her last failed spell and the way she couldn’t even identify cumin in her birthday cake. She was supposedly in training with Gwen, but she seemed to be getting worse, not better. And the harder she tried, the worse she seemed to get. This was supposed to be her purpose in life. Her role. She hadn’t gone to university or backpacking with her friends; she’d committed to training with Gwen. Gwen had run away, spent thirteen years denying her gifts and Katie wasn’t going to make the same mistake. So why did it feel as if she’d taken a wrong turning?

Katie heaved herself from the sofa, mustering just enough energy to get the biscuit tin from the kitchen and shove a DVD into the player. Back on the sofa she prepared to comfort watch His Girl Friday for the thousandth time and eat chocolate digestives.

The phone rang just as Rosalind Russell was kicking Cary Grant under the table. It was Anna, complaining about how Horrible Frank had been made Head Waiter. ‘It’s a travesty of justice,’ she said, ‘and he’s messed up the staff rota for the week. I need you to save me. Come in early?’

Katie stared at the paused image on the television screen while she deliberated. What would Hildy do? Hildy had a proper career, the answer came back. But she’d work. ‘Okay,’ she said into the phone. ‘Tell Frank that I’m keeping my tips this time.’

‘You make many of those?’ Anna said.

‘I’m an excellent waitress,’ Katie said, ignoring the pinch on her left ear that meant she was lying and that she knew it.

Anna laughed and hung up.

‘Rude,’ Katie said out loud and went to get ready.

She tied her hair into a high ponytail, smoothing back a stubborn wing of fringe. It fell into her face again, so she twisted it and used nail scissors to snip an inch away at an angle. When she let go the wing looked more asymmetrical and was now poking her in the eye. Fabulous. She put on her waitress uniform: — fitted black shirt, short black skirt, opaque black tights, and platform shoes — and tucked her revolver necklace inside the neck so that it was hidden. She was going to roast in tights, it was a warm day, but she knew from experience that a skirt meant better tips than trousers. It was icky, but true and, as Gwen would say; there was no such thing as a free lunch.

At The Grange Katie checked the staff rota and walked through the kitchen. ‘Here comes trouble,’ Jo said over her shoulder. She was frying what looked like ten different things at once, so Katie didn’t pause to chat. Jo was tiny, four foot something, and the head chef. She also had the loudest shouting voice Katie had ever heard, as if to compensate for her stature. She’d terrified Katie when she’d first started at the hotel, but now she knew that Jo played that role. As long as you weren’t completely inept. Katie cringed as she walked past a new kitchen assistant who appeared to be ladling coulis around an individual cheesecake with all the finesse of a Labrador. Sure enough, she heard Jo yelling before the door had swung shut.

Katie picked up a spare apron and tied it around her waist, slipped a pen and pad into the front pocket and headed into the restaurant. ‘What are you doing here?’ Frank, puffed up with his new position as Head Waiter, greeted her with his customary lack of charm. Katie was not in the mood so she just raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

‘You’re supposed to be in the function room. Wedding. Go. Go.’ Frank made little shooing gestures with his hands, as if Katie were a naughty puppy.

When I get my power, I’m never waitressing again, Katie promised herself. She plastered on her professional smile and pushed open the door to the private dining room. A thin man dressed in waiting-staff black zoomed up. ‘Are you Katie? Thank Christ. You’ve done silver service before, right? Brilliant.’ He practically dragged her to the side of the room where buffet tables were laid out. Platters of cold meat and bowls of salad gave way to gigantic metal trays of chicken wings and pork escalopes crusted with a topping that Katie feared would slide off the moment she tried to haul them onto a plate. She tried to manoeuvre herself to the cold end, thinking that if she threw some salad down a punter at least she wouldn’t give them third-degree burns.

The people who had been seated at round tables around the room decided, as one, that it was chow time and a queue formed. It was a polite queue; no pushing or shoving, just lots of chatter punctuated by braying laughter. Katie picked up the oversized serving tongs and prepared to fling food at the guests.

The waiter next to her smiled hello. ‘I hope the MOPs are hungry — they might not notice the food is lukewarm.’

Katie smiled back. MOP stood for member of public and had been one of the first bits of insider lingo she’d learned at The Grange. It was something she loved about the job, the feeling of belonging to a team, of knowing a secret language. Perhaps more so because of being an only child. Katie had always longed for a sibling — ideally a twin sister — who she could share secrets with.

‘Excuse me?’ A youngish guy was holding out a half-full plate of food. ‘Would you mind giving me some of that—’ he frowned momentarily at the tray of chicken parcels ‘—stuff?’

Katie glanced at the far end of the buffet where the first guests were just beginning to be served. ‘You’re supposed to queue that way.’ She waved her tongs.

He grinned at her and she thought: good looking and he knows it. ‘I’m a rule-breaker. A maverick. And what’s a MOP?’

‘You’ll be a hungry maverick if you don’t join that queue.’

‘Oh, go on, I know you’re not nearly that mean.’ He put a hand to his stomach and Katie tried not to notice how nice his torso looked, how well he was wearing his shirt and buttoned-up waistcoat.

‘You have no idea,’ Katie said, narrowing her eyes.

‘Fine, I shall simply have to fill up on carbs. But I’m blaming you when I feel all bloated and lethargic later.’ He grabbed a bread roll from the basket and stuffed it into his pocket, then piled two more onto the side of his plate.

By now one of the legitimately queuing people had reached Katie so she turned resolutely away from the cheeky good-looking guy and said: ‘Would you like a chicken and Parma ham parcel, madam?’ The woman at the front of the queue opened her mouth to answer but didn’t get a chance.

‘That sounds heavenly. You know, I’ve changed my mind and I will.’ Cheeky guy had his plate out again and was smiling at Katie, his dark eyes shining with barely suppressed humour. Katie wanted nothing more than to slap the plate out of his hands but Frank was hovering nearby, eyeballing her with an intensity that suggested guests ought to be walking away with chicken parcels, not engaging in a Mexican stand-off with the staff.

Katie knew when she was beaten. She successfully manoeuvred the chicken parcel onto the plate and gave him a fake smile. ‘Enjoy!’ Then she turned back to the woman who was waiting.

While Katie concentrated on her silver-service tongs, she couldn’t help watching the chicken thief. He looked quite boyish, but with a scruffy bit of stubble that contrasted rather pleasantly with his smart clothes. She wondered, for the thousandth time, why suit-wearing had gone out of fashion for men. Cary Grant, James Stewart, Henry Fonda, all bona fide hotties in their day, and all unlikely to look quite so delicious in hipster jeans and an over-sized knitted beanie.

There was something a bit off, though. Katie almost dropped a chicken parcel down a customer’s dress as she contemplated him. He had taken his plate of food and eaten standing up. He chatted to people, looked as if he was always on his way to a table, but never actually landed anywhere. It was almost as if he didn’t have a seat to go to.

The chicken thief had a slim build and light brown hair that was kind of curly and wild as if he’d just rolled out of a particularly enjoyable bed. He smiled easily whenever anybody looked his way, but in between he was watching the crowd with an unnerving purpose. After studying him for a while, Katie realised that he looked like a predator in a herd of gazelle. Something was telling her that he was up to no good, although God knew what she could do about it, when she was distracted by an over-excited pageboy having the sugar rush of his life. When she next looked for him, he’d disappeared. It was none of her concern, anyway. Wasn’t her wedding. Wasn’t her problem.

Later on, after the dining tables had been moved and the disco cranked up, Katie was pushing the last bits of buffet food around on the serving plates, trying to make them look a little less sad and leftover, when Frank hustled up and barked orders: ‘It’s winding down here. Go and help with room service.’

She fetched the tray from the kitchen and checked the room number. Mr Cole in The Yellow Room had ordered a late-night snack of cheese and biscuits and a glass of port. Katie had been upstairs in The Grange many times before but, in her depressed state of mind, the grand staircase seemed oppressive. There was too much oak panelling everywhere and the brass stair rods just made her wince in sympathy with whoever had to polish the damn things. She had a sudden, horrifying vision of that person being her. What if she never worked out what she wanted to do? What if she ended up working at The Grange for ever and ever?

The Yellow Room was on the top floor. Katie walked down one grand hallway to a narrower staircase and up two flights to a plainer corridor. The walls were papered in cream with a thick embossed damask pattern but the ceiling was lower and the decorative mouldings less fancy. The old servants’ quarters, most likely. The corridor was very clean and very quiet. The fire door whispered shut on the stairwell and, at once, the light seemed to dim.