Screaming Yellow. Rachel Green

      Breakfast at the rectory was a civilized affair. Jennifer made toast while Simon set the table and put out bowls and their three boxes of cereal. They both took tea and although he professed to prefer Earl Grey, Simon drank the brand Jennifer bought at the local supermarket. They sat together, each lost in their own thoughts until their bowls had been pushed to one side.

      “Was it just me, or was it a bit strange that Robert thought Richard was in London?” Simon asked, spreading a generous amount of Seville marmalade on his toast.

      Jennifer nodded. “I thought it was, too. Everybody knows he’s been staying at the White Art in town.”

      “Everybody meaning your webcam cronies.” He took a sip of the tea, holding the cup around the rim instead of by the handle. Jennifer thought the method uncouth. “Have they said why he’s staying there and not with his stepfather?”

      “No.” Jennifer leaned forward, the tips of her hair brushing across the strawberry jam on her toast. “Haven’t you found out from your sources?”

      “No. Not that I’d be able to reveal anything I learned in the confessional.”

      “Heaven forbid.” Jennifer smiled. “I know people gossip to you though. Outside of your little rosewood box, I mean.”

      “Not that I’d listen to such idle chatter.” Simon took a bite of his toast, a little of the marmalade slipping off and adhering to his chin. He wiped it off with a napkin. “Perhaps he just wants to be out of the way of Robert’s harem.”

      “Don’t be ridiculous.” Jennifer took a sip of her tea. “All the women who visit The Larches have good reason to do so. I can’t imagine Jean having truck with a harem.” She giggled at the thought of the balding Robert Markhew as an Arabian sultan.

      Simon waved the butter knife at her. “Scoff if you must,” he said with a grin. “I’m sure Robert is a very attractive man when clad only in his boxers. If I weren’t a priest I’d be tempted, and not least by the biscuit crumbs in his beard.”

      Jennifer snorted tea from her nose.

      “You can spray what you like,” Simon continued, “but he probably has a huge bed for six in that private room of his.”

      “Private room?” Jennifer wiped her face with her napkin. “What private room?”

      “The one that Jean isn’t allowed in.” Simon smirked at the expression on his sister’s face. He picked up his cup again. “Didn’t you know about it?”

      “You know I didn’t.” Jennifer poured more tea and did her best to remain composed against his insufferable smugness. “I shall do soon, though.”

      “I wouldn’t doubt it.” Simon held out his cup for a refill. “What about our new neighbors then? Do you know anything about them?”

      “Not much,” Jennifer admitted. “The ice-truck is registered to a company in Machynlleth, so they must be Welsh. Her name is Meinwen Jones and she used to run a shop in Aberdovey but it closed down a month ago according to Melanie at the post office. I don’t know anything about him other than he’s called Dafydd Thomas.”

      “I saw them yesterday when they were moving in.” Simon chose honey for his second slice of toast. “Not to speak to though. She looks to be a bit of a hippie, all floaty skirts and patchouli oil.”

      “That’s odd.” Jennifer finished her toast and pushed the plate away. “What does she want to come here for? Nothing ever happens here.”

      * * * *

      Meinwen smiled at the customers. “I haven’t really opened yet.” She nodded to the boxes of merchandise stacked two or three high, all waiting to go on display. “Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

      The girl in the t-shirt pushed her friend forward. Her purple hair looked nice, but clashed with the zebra-striped vest top, the bondage pants and the Doc Marten boots. Her stripy purple socks went well enough though, and were a match to Meinwen’s own.

      “Do you do love potions?” She bit her bottom lip, looking at everything but Meinwen. “Or a spell I can do myself?”

      “Certainly.” Meinwen reached under the counter and took out a small blue bottle. “Here you go, Mary. You need to add a hair of the two people you want to fall in love and bury it at the root of an oak tree overnight. That’ll be a tenner.”

      “Wow.” Mary grinned, holding the tiny bottle up to the light. “You must be a good psychic to have guessed my name.” She dug into her pocket and pulled out the money. “How long will it take?”

      “No more than a week or so.” Meinwen tucked the money under a statue of Buddha and rubbed his belly for luck. “Wear a little of it whenever you expect to see the object of your desire.”

      Mary sniffed at the contents. “Cool,” she said. “It smells like musk.”

      Meinwen watched them walk down the street before returning to her unpacking. Her reputation as a witch would grow exponentially, at least among the town’s teenage population. She was glad she hadn’t mentioned she knew Mary’s Uncle Robert, who had not only sent her Mary’s picture but described her to a T.

      * * * *

      Later, Meinwen was working in her new garden when the vicar appeared next door. She didn’t stop digging, but caught a glimpse of him every time she lifted a spadeful of the damp, chalky soil. Had she been looking for a man to share her life with, she could have done worse than this young chap. He looked to be forty or so, with an easy smile and ash-blond hair that fell across his eyes. He was, as far as she could tell, quite physically fit. Probably from pushing the ratty old car she’d spotted in the driveway. She paused, leaning on her spade as he approached the low wall dividing the two properties.

      “Good