Careful What You Witch For

by Emma Jackson

Genres: Fantasy Romance

Synopsis

Don't miss Emma Jackson's next wickedly charming romcom - available to pre-order now!

Sometimes you need to be careful what you witch for...

Becca Ashworth's family is in trouble and with their magical legacy under threat, it puts their small village of Biddicote at risk too. So going against the witching tenets to summon an ancestor for help seems like a small price to pay to fix the problem...at first.

Connor Lynch is the Witches Council's secret weapon and he's just been deployed to find out exactly what the Ashworths are up to. But how he ends up posing as Becca's fake husband at a magical inn in Cornwall as they hunt down a magical artefact is just as perplexing as the cheerful witch herself.

When their attraction for each other grows, Becca and Connor question everything they have been taught - and soon the missing artefact isn't the only thing they are searching for. As love collides with duty, it's clear that sometimes you need to be careful what you witch for...

YOUR FAVOURITE AUTHORS LOVE EMMA JACKSON

'A magical rollercoaster which will charm the hex out of the hardest of hearts' JESSICA THORNE

'It cast a spell on me from the first page with its bewitching brew of angst, charm and romance' M.A. KUZNIAR

'As effervescent as an Aperol Spritz' LUNA MCNAMARA

Release date: October 10, 2024

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 336

Sample

There was a commonly held belief that ‘the witching hour’ took place from midnight to 1 a.m. Becca Ashworth wished that were true. It actually took place between 2.45 and 3.30 a.m. (depending on the sunrise), and reality was short-changing witches by fifteen minutes. But, as someone who liked sleep, Becca didn’t mind prioritising efficiency and getting back to her bed sooner rather than later. Preferably with the answers that would make all her family’s problems go away.

Still, it was a tight and fairly disorientating timeframe to be trying to get serious magic done. And it was only ‘serious’ magic that necessitated an atmosphere as close to utter stillness as the modern world was capable of.

She stifled a yawn and shifted on the freezing bare-stone floor of Ashworth Hall’s cellar, just enough so that blood flowed into her right butt cheek again. As she lifted her hand directly over a thick white pillar candle, fingers poised to click and light it with a spark of magic, she glanced over at Kay – her cousin Harry’s girlfriend – who was sitting outside the chalk pentacle at the point opposite and to the left of her.

‘Everything good, Kay?’ It seemed to take an extra-special effort to break through the bubble of quiet – as if the air were charged, heavy with expectation of the spell they were about to cast. The only other noise was the soft scrape of chalk as Harry drew runes directly onto the floor as part of the pentacle. But, since Kay was gnawing on her thumbnail, a frown etched across her brow, Becca figured it was worth making the effort to speak up and check.

‘I just …’ Kay pressed her lips together and tapped her thumb against them before continuing, her words pouring out like commuters exiting the London Underground during rush hour. ‘Are we definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent sure about this?’

Harry set down the chalk and dusted off his fingers against his shirt, before he reached across to catch Kay’s hand – presumably to prevent her losing an entire finger to the nervous nibbling.

‘We can’t ever be “definitely, absolutely, one hundred per cent sure” about anything in life.’ Then he paused and asked, with genuine curiosity: ‘Can we?’

Kay’s hand tightened around his. ‘I think you’re right but … but technically this is death. Not life,’ she pointed out, her tone a touch sardonic. ‘So I feel like we should be even more conscientious about the possible consequences.’

Becca sighed. These two. They were hopelessly adorable. The hopeless bit being more annoying on some days than others … like today. Or tonight. This morning? Whatever.

She understood their reservations – she really did – despite being a witch not taken to second-guessing herself. She worked to a simple yet effective system: assess a problem, identify a solution, get on with fixing it. That being said, even within the witching community, summoning the spirits of ancestors past was not exactly encouraged.

OK. Fine. There was literally a Worldwide Witching Tenet forbidding ‘unnecessary communion with, and/or manifestation of, spirits’, which had been in place since the very unfortunate seance frenzy in the Victorian era. Increasingly stringent UK Witches Council by-laws, fines and prosecutions of the last decade aside, Becca knew the prohibition was there for a very good reason. But this was not ‘unnecessary’.

Whether the Witches Council would agree with that or not was another matter and, given their frosty relationship with Becca’s family, it wasn’t worth asking them for permission. There was too much at stake to risk inviting the Council’s notice or censure, so, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hex them. This was a last resort, for the sake of Becca’s family and, ultimately, the whole of Biddicote village.

She knew she didn’t need to remind Kay and Harry of that. They were just conflicted. Kay was not a natural law-breaker – not to mention she’d been working for the Council for less than a year – and Harry was gravitated towards feelings of guilt at any given opportunity, regardless of the fact that he was one of the most generous and kind people Becca had ever known. So … hopelessly adorable. Prone to heartfelt deconstructions of their personal morals, magical ethics and their interplay within witching society or the world as a whole. Something they did not have time for. Becca might permanently damage the nerve-endings in her derrière.

She snapped her fingers, harnessing the friction between her digits with a wordless magical intention to create a flame, which she transferred to the wick of the candle. The lovebirds both jumped and tore their gazes away from each other to look at her.

‘Don’t start tying yourself up in knots again, please,’ Becca said, lightly but firmly, withdrawing her hand from the candle as its light flickered and grew strangely long. The pentacle was doing its job already – she could feel the air thinning around her. The tip of her nose getting cold. ‘You’ll just end up at the same conclusion as before and all we’ll have gained are numb backsides and summer colds from sitting in the damp longer than we had to. You know why it’s come down to this. We’re not doing it lightly or without good reason. Right?’

Becca could almost see the chain of events that had led the three of them to this moment running through their minds like a training montage in an action movie. Or maybe that was just her. It was possible she was a little delirious from lack of sleep.

The sequence would begin with Uncle Adrian – Harry’s dad – growing sicker and sicker over the last few years from the mysterious respiratory illness that no healer or doctor could figure out the origin of, or – most importantly – a cure for.

Cut to Harry returning to live at Ashworth Hall to help his mum – Becca’s Aunt Elenor – look after his dad and alleviate the demands on the Ashworth family from the larger-than-average population of witches in Biddicote. At first, this meant simply being the person they came to if they noticed one of the wards, charms or runes the Ashworth ancestors had built into the village causing any issues or weakening in power. It was that very network of spells, woven to protect witches from discovery and allowing them to live alongside non-magical neighbours, which had enticed so many to make Biddicote their home – even if they didn’t know exactly how deep the magic went, how it all worked together, or that the Ashworth heir was a physical lynchpin. Or rather, magical anchor.

That had been the next stage: Harry having the anchor tattoo of the Ashworth heir – a closely guarded secret – permanently inked onto his chest, in a bid to relieve the drain on Uncle Adrian’s already low reserves of energy. Becca’s father accusing Harry of taking advantage of the situation to ensure he inherited the Hall, while doing nothing to help as usual, just adding to the stress and pain and guilt when Harry’s tattoo didn’t activate and they watched Uncle Adrian deteriorate to the point where they knew he didn’t have long left.

Cue momentary uplifting music as, last Samhain, it did finally work, and the draw of the anchor split between father and son. Uncle Adrian rallying from his death bed, regaining his voice, his life … albeit weakened, but the improvement had been undeniable.

The chord changing to minor again as Harry started to show signs of a different illness. Dizzy spells and heart palpitations whenever there was a large gathering for the witching festivals, which they’d – prematurely, as it turned out – reintroduced. And it becoming obvious that it was due to the increased demand on the protective magic woven throughout Biddicote, and therefore on the anchors. The tattoo wasn’t just exacerbating an existing illness, it was causing the illnesses in the first place, weakening the centre of magic for the witch it was inked onto.

The realisation was followed by confusion and panic, because the tattoos had never made any heir to Ashworth Hall ill in the past. They’d gone through every book in the extensive family library again – since they’d already picked over each precious grimoire looking for notes on the runes that made up the tattoo – trying to figure out what might have been missed from the tattoo ritual, when it hadn’t immediately activated on Harry. But it was all such a hallowed family secret that none of their ancestors had written down helpful details about what all the symbols meant, exactly how it worked or the precise method of implementing it. They’d relied on oral history, and the only logical conclusion was that at some point down the line of inheritance, someone must have forgotten something. Leaving them with only one option: speaking to a witch in the family who was alive before someone in the chain screwed it up.

Which brought them right here to this moment. Sitting in the cellar, getting ready to break several witching by-laws without special dispensation because Becca was not going to watch her baby cousin (yes, he was about to turn twenty-nine, but he was still a baby to her) or her uncle wither away, closely followed by the entire legacy of her family.

They needed answers, and if they needed to get them from beyond the grave, so be it.

As though they could see the renewed determination in her eyes, the set of her jaw and the strengthening of her spine, Harry and Kay nodded.

‘Right,’ she repeated, this time softened by relief that they were still in agreement over this course of action and she wasn’t going to have to convince them all over again. ‘So … do you want to crack on with those runes, Harry? It’ll be easier to call the spirits if my teeth aren’t chattering.’

‘It’s thirty degrees outside, Becs. We’re in the middle of a heatwave.’ Harry rolled his eyes, but, after kissing Kay tenderly on the cheek, he rested back on his haunches and picked up the chalk again.

‘I can’t help it if I’m a cold-blooded creature.’ Becca gave an exaggerated shiver.

‘That explains the scales,’ he teased, even as he concentrated on drawing the next rune.

‘And the forked tongue,’ Kay joined in.

‘You know turtles are cold-blooded. So are honeybees. You could have compared me to one of those … or any of the many other cute animals that can’t regulate their own temperature. But no, you two bullies have to go with a snake.’ Becca feigned a wounded sigh.

‘Oh, I wasn’t thinking of a snake,’ Harry said, glancing over at her, his mouth hitching up at the side in his familiar mischievous smile.

‘No? What then?’

‘Komodo dragon,’ both Harry and Kay answered simultaneously.

Becca let her jaw drop. ‘Look, I’d accept the dragon part, but Komodos have more bacteria in their mouths than a bachelor’s bed sheets, so I’m sticking with calling you both out as bullies. Weirdly synchronous bullies, too. Tweedledum and Tweedledummer.’

Kay snorted and Harry shook his head, laughing: ‘Stop – I’m trying to concentrate,’ he implored.

Becca bit her tongue on another retort, holding up her hands in surrender, and they all settled down as Harry finished off drawing the runes around the pentacle.

‘There.’ After a few minutes, he flicked the last line with his natural artistic flare and sat back in his spot. He pushed his coppery hair back from his forehead, rubbing away the perspiration dotted at his hairline with the heel of his hand.

Becca’s smile faded and when Kay’s eyes met hers, she knew the concern in them was mirrored in her own. Regardless of the heatwave, it was not the temperature in the cellar making Harry sweat – it was exertion … and that wasn’t proportionate to the magic he’d just worked. Not for him anyway. Runes were very old, extremely tricky magic that few witches could use effectively, but the handful he’d just drawn would never even have registered on him this time last year. He’d been capable of recharging the entirety of Biddicote’s charms and wards when he was trying to stop the anchor from draining his dad too much – it had exhausted him, but he could do it. Now the intermittent demands of the anchor seemed to be gradually eroding Harry’s natural magical stamina. How long before it affected his health all the time, in the same way that it had with Uncle Adrian? Before both he and his dad were bedridden?

She folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, making an effort not to let her voice betray her worry. ‘Can you light your candle for us, Kay?’

‘Sure.’

There was another snap and more light crept into the room, pushing the shadows further back towards the old boxes and fragile pieces of ancient furniture they stored down there instead of wine. That cellar was in another part of the house near the ‘new’ kitchen. But this being one of the original and therefore oldest parts of the Hall was exactly why they were using it.

They could have gone outside to the cave on the grounds, where their ancestor Biddi had first lived before she married William Ashworth and founded the village, a few hundred years ago. Her disappearance from the cave instigated the carefully planted rumour, which had turned into folklore, that ‘the devil’ had already taken the witch, deterring the Witchfinder General from poking around in the area for too long.

Without a doubt the depth of magic would have been even stronger in the cave, but they’d all agreed they weren’t quite ready to try to summon such a legendary witch, even if they were related to her. Even if Becca was the first person in their family since Biddi to have the same primary gift as her – the ability to find lost objects for people. Her own father thought she wasn’t living up to the responsibility of that privilege, so Goddess knew what Biddi would make of her.

Still, if Biddi turned up, she turned up. It wasn’t like Becca had a supernatural phonebook to make sure she dialled the right ancestor. All she could do was reach out and see who, if anyone, responded.

Being a medium was Becca’s secondary gift, but between her mum (the only other medium Becca had met) passing away before Becca’s gifts had manifested fully at fifteen and the tightening shackles of the Witches Council, she’d never put anything into practice. She knew from living with her mum and, later, recognising the sensations in herself that she could feel it if she was in a place where many or strong spirits lingered. And she knew that her presence alone could help the strongest of those spirits become more visible or capable of communication – if they were so inclined – but she had no control over it. Had not been taught any spells or rituals first-hand for summoning or exorcism. It was all theory from books, which the Witches Council was probably dying to confiscate from the Ashworth family library. Here’s hoping they didn’t have good reason and Becca wasn’t about to turn Ashworth Hall into something from The Shining.

She took a deep breath. ‘Let’s do this.’

Both Harry and Kay nodded again, and mirrored her cross-legged position, hands on their knees, silent. Becca was at the ‘top’ of the pentacle, with two empty points on either side of her, while Kay and Harry sat at the points next to each other. Ideally, they would have had two other people at the empty points, and she didn’t want to think too much about the consequences of that, but it had just been too complicated to find anyone else to join them. The older generations of their family were either not well enough, at odds with each other, or would disapprove. Getting them involved would only have delayed things. And none of them had wanted to rope any of their other friends or family into what was technically illegal magic. That was why they’d had to wait until Uncle Adrian and Aunt Elenor had gone away for a restorative ten-day break at the coast.

On the plus side, three was always a good number for magic and, between them, they had a broad mix of useful gifts. Harry’s ability to influence through art gave him the magical edge needed to draw the runes, invoking varying degrees of protection, security and good will. Kay – when she wasn’t wearing her magically charmed glasses – could see the emotional bonds between people. They didn’t actually have any idea whether it would work on a ghost, since Kay had never seen one, but on the off-chance it did, it would only be a bonus to have a heads-up on whether whichever spirit of Ashworth past happened to answer the call had any instinctive, protective familial feelings towards them. And then, of course, there was her. Becca. The untried and untested medium.

Time to do her ‘stuff’.

She closed her eyes and focused. Just like with the tugging pressure she felt when she was locating lost things, when she was accessing her gift as a medium her awareness usually started in her head. A tingle at the base of her skull, before snaking down her spine and spreading out over her skin like goosebumps. Ashworth Hall had always made her skin feel slightly more ‘awake’, so she knew spirits were here – but they were never oppressive or demanding so she had been able to coexist with them quite happily without disturbing them or herself.

And she was almost 99.9 per cent sure that she wouldn’t summon her mum. They hadn’t lived at Ashworth Hall, and she’d never sensed her mum’s spirit here – she was sure she would have felt something different … The only place Becca had ever felt her mum’s presence since she died was in her heart – her chest hitched a little at the thought, but she pushed it away. She knew it was for the best. Because as much as it would be a sharp, fierce joy to see her mum again … knowing she couldn’t keep her would be devastating.

Clear your mind, breathe deep, she instructed herself, and when she felt a chill in the air settling over her like a blanket of dew, she opened her eyes again. Harry was looking at her like he wanted to say something, but she gave her head a slight shake to stop him and a small smile to try to reassure him.

She lifted her hands and pulled a long, old-fashioned hair pin from the messy bun of her hair. She’d found it in one of the spare rooms in the Hall when she was a teenager and had worn it for years, so it served the double purpose of being old, connected to an ancestor most likely, and being something she owned, which was perfect for the next step.

Holding the base of the pillar candle, she stared into the bright flame, the darkness everywhere else deepening by contrast, and then slowly, carefully, pushed the pin through the candle as she spoke, calm and quiet.

‘’Tis not only this candle I mean to stick, but a spirit’s ears I mean to prick. If someone is listening, please answer to me, but only if you are part of the Ashworth family. We three seek the knowledge to help Biddicote village. We ask kindly for this boon, by the light of the moon.’

As she spoke the last word, the candlelight flared, the flame turning silvery pale and inexplicably round. It grew, wavering, and the heat touched her face, in stark contrast to the cool air in the cellar. The sensation of tingling across her skin intensified, making her want to either giggle or scrub at her arms, but she stayed as still as possible.

Kay let out a little squeak, but Becca couldn’t see her or Harry. The light from their candles was doing the same, growing and thinning as the flames stretched towards each other, almost like bubbles being blown by children.

Becca’s heart clenched for a moment, wondering if the distance would be too far for the light to cross, if they should have put two more candles down, despite them not having the witches to sit by them, or maybe they should have got her aunt and her dad in to help, regardless of the days of arguing that it probably would have necessitated—

And then a man’s head popped into sight, floating above them and the glow of light in the centre of the pentacle. He had a mess of blond curls, with a side parting so far over it was almost at his left ear, and the biggest, most impressive sideburns Becca had ever seen.

The head twisted around, seemingly taking in the dim corners of the room as the candlelight eased back and more of his body came into view. He was wearing a long, white … nightshirt? And nothing else. When he looked down and realised he let out an enormous groan.

‘What in the blazes? Where are my dratted inexpressibles?’ He tipped his head back and pressed a palm to his forehead. ‘And in the presence of ladies, too.’

Becca blinked as the ghost heaved an enormous sigh. ‘Umm … hello. Thank you for joining us.’ She winced – why was she talking to him as if this were a Zoom meeting? Although, she supposed, it wasn’t too different. Even the underwear bit wasn’t unheard of … Admittedly, the whole being dead thing was less common. ‘Honestly, don’t worry about the clothes.’

‘My sincerest apologies,’ he continued, as though he hadn’t heard her speak, shaking his head and dragging his hand down to cover his face. ‘I’m afraid I had no way of realising that, when I heard you and went towards the light, I would appear in the same apparel I died in. Honestly, where is the dignity?’

Harry cleared his throat. ‘Please, like Becca said, don’t worry about it. You can’t be held accountable.’

The ghost dropped his hand immediately at the sound of Harry’s voice, and turned to him with a relieved smile. ‘Kind of you to say, my dear fellow.’

Ah. So, he’d needed some male approval to stop him fretting. Becca had forgotten someone from an earlier time period would probably assume another man was in charge. It still happened in the twenty-first century; what could she expect of someone born in the … nineteenth? She was guessing.

‘And you are?’ the ghost continued, talking to Harry.

‘Harrison Ashworth.’

‘Heir to Ashworth Hall,’ Becca added, because it seemed like something the ghost would have respect for, but Harry never wanted to volunteer that kind of information.

Again, there was no acknowledgement she’d spoken. Maybe those sideburns were so big they deflected female speech patterns?

‘Indeed? A descendant! Not directly of mine, obviously – I sadly died before I had any issue … but a relation.’

‘Yes. As is my cousin, Rebecca Ashworth.’ Harry nodded towards Becca and the man glanced over at her.

‘Charmed, I’m sure, Miss Ashworth.’ He grasped at the side of his nightgown and sketched a short bow, now they had been formally introduced.

‘Likewise, sir,’ Becca said, trying not to laugh. Maybe the use of her magic was making her light-headed. ‘Might I enquire as to your name?’ They’d all be auditioning for parts on Bridgerton at this rate.

‘Oh, but of course. I’m Horatio William Albert Ashworth.’ He bowed again and as he returned his attention to Harry, Becca tilted her head, throwing a questioning look at Kay and Harry. Both of them were shaking their heads slightly, to indicate that they couldn’t place the name from the family trees or diaries or grimoires they’d all studied. Perhaps the Witches Council would be less covetous of the Ashworth family library if they knew how poorly the records had been kept?

‘I say,’ Horatio said as he noticed Kay. ‘Is your hair blue, young lady? Or has the afterlife done something wayward to my vision?’ He rubbed his eyes, the motion lifting his nightshirt; Becca swiftly averted her gaze because she had no clue if the Victorians had worn underwear to bed. ‘And by the by, you are all dressed extremely strangely.’

Kay let out a short laugh at that but covered it up with a cough.

‘Things are a bit different now,’ Harry, king of the understatement, said. ‘It’s the twenty-first century.’

‘Twenty …?’ Horatio trailed off and stared around him again, like he had when he’d first appeared. Then he shook his head. ‘Well, my goodness … this calls for some investigation.’

And with that he stepped out of the pentacle and made for the stairs, floating up them, and disappearing through the locked door at the top.

‘Cernunnos’s balls!’ Becca stared after him. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen.’

Connor Lynch ran his finger along the inside of his shirt collar, separating it from his neck, and attempted to scoot the cumbersome armchair he was wedged into further away from the window.

How did a chair manage to be the size of a grizzly bear while simultaneously being too small to sit in comfortably? The charm it had been infused with when it was magically crafted rolled straight over him, telling him that if he’d been even slightly susceptible to influential magic, he would have found it the perfect blend of supportive and deliciously soft – taunting him, in fact, as his kidneys were pummelled by upholstery, which was seemingly stuffed with rocks.

The stumps that passed for the chair’s feet squeaked over the tiles and the witch working on the far side of the office/antechamber fumbled with her stapler, sending it clattering over her desk and onto the floor, little metal staples skittering out like miniature shrapnel.

Connor sighed and resisted the impulse to be helpful and levitate both it and the contents back up into her hands. It would only make her more nervous to see him using his own magic. As his boss, Warren Barraclough’s, secretary, Priscilla was one of the very small handful of people, mostly made up of Tenet Enforcers, who were under one of the Witches Council’s anonymity charms and therefore permitted to know both his role and true identity. Connor rarely saw her in person, though.

Warren was the United Kingdom’s PR Councillor, which meant the overseeing of non-magical relations and media control. He split his time between this Reigate office, which was mainly given over to heritage, artefacts and historical research, and the technical centre in Portsmouth. Connor reported in to him at least every other month, if he wasn’t on another continent or the far side of the country. But this morning he’d received a very rare request to drop in to the office. During the day.

Connor was familiar with the building’s layout. He knew the reference and research departments, which spread over the first floor. He’d sometimes needed to visit the heritage and archaeology department, with its archives for magical artefacts tucked in the basement, alongside the still-rooms to test old spells that had been rediscovered, but when he was visiting he spent most of his time in Warren’s corner office, here on the top floor, near the kitchen and the meeting rooms. Just the two of them. When he’d entered the reception ten minutes earlier and had to wait – because his ability to pass through wards was as closely guarded a secret as his identity – then been collected by Priscilla and got to walk through the offices and see it populated by people, it had been a nice, if overwhelming, change. Like when a zombie movie flicked from the stark, post-apocalyptic narrative to a scene of the ‘good times’, which were full of chatter and warm lighting, people going about their everyday lives, blissfully unaware of the calamity approaching them.

But Priscilla and her flying stapler was an excellent reminder of why he usually came after hours and interacted with the bare minimum of staff. It avoided questions about who he was from people who didn’t know … and why his presence alone terrified the people who did.

Priscilla hurried out from behind her desk, heels clicking, to retrieve the stationery, and backed away again as if he were pointing a gun towards her. Connor averted his eyes and resigned himself to being roasted. You’d have thought that a building full of witches would have benefited from charmed glass, but perhaps other people enjoyed being shrivelled up into pieces of magical jerky.

He glanced out of the window, watching as dozens of non-magical people passed by without any clue that there was an entire building of witches right there, sandwiched between a jeweller’s and a picture framer’s. The Witches Council of the UK had offices all over England, Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales, and they were utterly nondescript. Never any bigger or more intriguing than the average small accountancy firm, they blended in seamlessly with the neighbouring commercial properties without a single sign outside to entice a non-magical person to venture in.

The sound of a door opening drew Connor’s attention back into the room, and a male witch around his age, with slicked-down blond hair, stepped out of Warren’s office.

‘Fecking hell,’ Connor muttered under his breath as Edward Cochrane did a double-take and his narrow face tightened into a rigid mask. Edward was another person who ‘knew’ who Connor was – but not only because he worked at the Witches Council for Warren in the mythology and folklore verification department. He and Connor were old schoolmates.

Well, ‘mate’ was entirely the wrong word. ‘Nemesis’ was perhaps also too strong. It implied that there had been some kind of wilful rivalry on both sides. Connor had never wanted to achieve anything more from Dentwood, the witching boarding school they’d both spent their teen years at, than getting through it. He’d never entertained ambitions of coming top of his class or beating Edward and his gaggle of cronies at sporting activities or in the magical competitions. All Connor had wanted was to adjust to the reality of being a witch, when he’d never known such a thing truly existed. Not until he was thirteen and managed to set