Chapter 1
The kettle whistled on the old wood stove like it was auditioning for an opera. Aunt Agnes ignored it in favour of glaring at my left hand.
“You’re waving it about on purpose,” she said.
I looked down at my engagement ring, which was currently catching every stray ray of sunlight and throwing it around the Mugwort Manor kitchen. “I’m not waving it about on purpose,” I said, even though I probably was. “I’m gesturing. It’s a completely different thing. Besides, if you’d been given a ring in a lighthouse restaurant with sand crab lasagne and a fruit plate for two, you’d be gesturing as well.”
Aunt Maude uttered a romantic sigh and patted Cary the Dachshund, who was snoring in a basket by the wood stove as if he’d been born to a life of warmth and sausages. “Lighthouses are terribly symbolic,” she said. “Beacons of hope in the darkness. Guiding ships home.”
“Lucas is my ship,” I said happily. “My tall, dark, slightly bossy ship.”
Aunt Dorothy peered over her glasses at my hand, then took them off and peered again. “It keeps going fuzzy,” she complained. “One moment, it’s a diamond. The next, it’s a small, startled fish.”
“That’s because you’re not wearing your glasses properly,” Agnes said, getting up to rescue the kettle before it boiled itself into a nervous breakdown. “And because you need to stop looking at it like it’s about to swim away.”
“I’m just checking it’s still there,” Aunt Dorothy said. “You know what Mugwort Manor’s like. People are always misplacing things. Guests. Bodies. Jewellery.”
“We have never misplaced jewellery,” Agnes said firmly. “People always leave with more than they came with.”
“That’s because Maude keeps pressing knitted scarves onto them,” I pointed out.
Aunt Maude, who was indeed knitting at the table with her usual air of quiet determination, lifted her current project. “This one is for Lucas,” she said. “I’m weaving protective knots into it. For when he’s off on his Cleaner business.” She lowered her voice on the last two words, as if the walls might be listening.
Breena, currently in human form and draped over one of the kitchen chairs like a weary ballerina, flicked her dark hair over her shoulder. “Don’t weave in knots that make him forget to call,” she said.
“He can’t call,” I said, for what felt like the fiftieth time that morning. “The case is sensitive and top secret.” I made a vague gesture which I hoped conveyed all the mystery of a shadowy supernatural police force. “He said there’s no reception where he’s going.”
“In Europe?” Dorothy said. “Surely they have good mobile service there.”
“Not everywhere,” Agnes muttered darkly, pouring boiling water into the teapot. “And even if they did, I doubt The Other would allow Lucas to sit there merrily sending you text messages with heart emojis while he’s supposed to be tracking them down.”
A little shiver ran down my spine at the mention of The Other. I tried to ignore it in favour of focusing on my ring again, but the name hung in the air like a small, chilly cloud.
“The Other,” Maude repeated, knotting her yarn a little tighter than necessary. “They won’t be happy about the engagement.”
“Well, that’s rude,” I said. “We haven’t even sent them a wedding invitation.”
Agnes set the teapot on the table. The old oak shuddered in familiar terror. “They won’t like the symbolism,” she said. “A Jasper marrying a Cleaner? They’ll think the Council is consolidating power. They already don’t like the fact I have a seat on the Council.”
“And that you refuse to die,” Dorothy added helpfully.
“I’m not going to die just to make life more convenient for The Other,” Agnes said. “Or anyone else.”
“Good,” I said quickly. “Because I’d like all three of you at the wedding, please. We’ll need at least three people to argue about the seating plan.”
Breena reached for the milk jug and poured some into her teacup, then bent and lapped from it.
Aunt Maude cleared her throat in a long‑suffering way. “Breena, you’re a lovely young woman. You no longer have to drink from a saucer.”
Breena’s cheeks turned pink. She picked up the cup properly and took a sip, though she still somehow managed to look like a cat pretending to be a person pretending not to be a cat.
Cary, sensing that someone else was perhaps receiving more attention than a small dog deserved, let out a soft whine and rolled onto his back in his basket in an appeal for tummy rubs. Dorothy immediately obliged, cooing at him in French, which she apparently thought was his native tongue.
“He’s from the local shelter, Dorothy,” Agnes reminded her. “He was born in Lighthouse Bay. He probably thinks your words mean you’re about to give him a dog biscuit.”
The kitchen felt cosy and familiar: battered pine cupboards, the big dresser full of mismatched crockery, Dorothy’s herbs hanging in neat bundles, the giant cauldron simmering gently on the Rayburn with the day’s stew. I breathed it all in, letting it settle me.
“Well, The Other can think what they like,” I said firmly. “Lucas and I are engaged. You’re on the Council. None of that is going to change. And I refuse to let an evil covert organisation dedicated to wiping shifters off the face of the earth ruin my happy glow.”
There was a brief pause as everyone digested the words, evil covert organisation, alongside their morning tea.
“I don’t like it,” Agnes said eventually, her forehead creasing. “They have ears everywhere. Agents. Informants. People who would be delighted to see a Jasper disgraced. You’re more of a target now.”
“I was a target before,” I pointed out. “You said so. The Council seat inheritance. Euphemia. The Other already knows I exist.”
“Yes, but now you’re officially attached to a Cleaner,” Maude said. “It looks organised.”
I laughed at that. “It is organised,” I said. “It’s called love. There will be flowers. And cake. I should start looking at dresses. Do you think there are wedding dresses that are impervious to bloodstains?”
All three aunts gave me identical disapproving looks.
“From other people’s blood,” I added hastily. “From incidents. You know, inevitable crime scenes.”
“You won’t be attending your own wedding in the middle of a crime scene,” Agnes said. “We will have wards. And charms. And warding charms. Nobody uninvited is getting through the gates.”
Breena perked up. “Can I be a bridesmaid? I could carry the rings in my teeth.”
I tried to imagine my parents’ faces. “We’ll workshop it,” I said carefully.
Aunt Agnes poured tea, the brown liquid swirling into the mugs with comforting familiarity. She handed a cup to me. I accepted it, even though I’d already had three cups of coffee. “Jokes aside,” she said, “we have to be careful. Lucas being in Europe on a Cleaner case involving The Other at the same time as your engagement becoming public knowledge is a concern.”
“If we don’t tell anyone, how will it become public knowledge?” I asked. “It’s not like it’s going to appear in the Lighthouse Bay Chronicle under local engagements.”
Aunt Agnes shook her head. “The Council will know. They already do. News travels. And if there is one thing I know about The Other, it’s that they listen.”
“We’ll just have to listen better,” Maude said stoutly. “I’ll knit faster.”
Dorothy’s expression was grave. “You can’t let them intimidate you, Valkyrie. That’s what they want. They want you to be nervous and distracted. Like a possum on the road when the headlights come.”
“Thank you for that helpful image,” I said. “Nothing says marital bliss like being compared to a startled possum on the road.”
Before anyone could come up with further cheerful metaphors, there was a sharp knock at the front door.
We all froze. It was habit. Too many knocks at Mugwort Manor had resulted in someone falling into the tomatoes, or suddenly becoming a corpse, or asking very pointed questions about why the Cluedo cottage had allegedly fake bloodstains on the wallpaper.
Cary sprang up, ears pricked, and let out his fiercest attempt at a bark. It sounded like a squeaky toy in distress.
“See?” Dorothy said proudly. “A guard dog.”
Agnes marched to the door. I followed, because if there was one thing I’d learnt since moving to Lighthouse Bay, it was that nothing good ever happened when I wasn’t there to see it.
Agnes opened the door.
A woman stood on the step, framed by the morning sun.
“Oh!” she said, brightening when she saw us. “Hello. I do hope this isn’t a terrible time. I’m so sorry to turn up without a booking, but the sign said there were vacancies. My name is Zinnia Fairweather.”
“Fairweather,” Maude repeated, appearing at my shoulder like a conjuring trick. “What a lovely name.”
“It sounds like a paint colour,” Dorothy said, squinting at the Grecian statue by the front door. “Or a brand of laundry detergent.”
Zinnia laughed. “I get that a lot. I was booked in to a local motel for a couple of nights, but it’s so lovely here, I thought, why not stay a week? I hope you’re not full?”
Agnes drew herself up. “Mugwort Manor is never full,” she said. “We pride ourselves on always having space for guests.” She hesitated for a heartbeat. “At the moment, that’s particularly true. All the themed cottages are vacant.”
Zinnia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, how lovely. Themed cottages?”
Dorothy beamed. “They’re murder‑themed now. They’re ever so popular.”
Zinnia’s jaw fell open.
“You’re in luck,” Agnes said. “I’m Agnes, this is Maude, that’s Dorothy, and this is Valkyrie.”
“Pepper,” I said automatically.
“We’ll put you in the King Arthur cottage,” Maude decided. “It’s restful. And the dragons on the wallpaper don’t move anymore.”
“Perfect,” Zinnia said, apparently undeterred. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I check in now? It’s been a long drive.”
“Certainly,” Agnes said. “We’ll help you with your luggage.”
We stepped out into the driveway.
The manor loomed behind us, three storeys of gloomy stone and bristling ironwork, like a slightly offended castle.
Zinnia’s car was small, dusty but not battered, with a collection of bumper stickers.
She fished the keys out of her coat pocket. I trailed after her, Maude at my side. Agnes hung back a little.
Zinnia clicked the button.
The boot flew open with a mechanical click.
We all leant back out of habit. It was a Mugwort Manor thing. You never knew what was going to come out of a boot. Luggage. Groceries. A cat. Once, a set of antique candlesticks.
This time, it was a man.
He was dead, judging by the knife protruding from his body.
