Hilary paused. There was a presence in the room. She felt for a sense of what it could be, but there was nothing obvious and nothing malevolent. She returned to peeling her carrot. “They say you should just scrub carrots, but these are old and robust and I think I’ll take the time to peel them,” she said and felt that presence take notice.

There was a lull with the hiss of the peeler over the fresh, vivid carrot mingling with the quiet chuckle of the wood stove. Hilary finished peeling the handful of carrots. “The farm shop had some good veggies today,” she said. There was no response from the presence. “But I wondered how many were genuinely home-grown and how many were brought in and put in rustic baskets to look right.” She kept her knives sharp and the carrot sliced easily. “But these are lovely and fresh. They feel like they came out of the ground this morning.” She took her time, trying to get a sense of what was present and where it was hiding, but it was distressingly vague. “So I guess the carrots might be local.” She slid the chopped carrots into a bowl, popping one last chunk into her mouth for the sweet crunch before reaching for the sweet potato. “But they must have flown this in. They don’t grow sweet potatoes in Yorkshire.” Hilary reached for the peeler. “I don’t usually bother with sweet potatoes, but this looked so fresh.”

There was a rattle of rain on the window. “It’s a wonderful vegetable for soup,” Hilary said, dropping the parings into the scraps bucket. “It’s sweet, but not too sweet, with a full flavor that will absorb the other flavors and amplify them, and it has just the right amount of starch.” The sweet potato crunched as she diced it up. “I don’t have to cut it up fancy,” she added. “It’s just for soup so I need it small rather than neat.” She could feel the presence edging closer. “I’d share a taste, but you can’t eat it raw.” She added the softer orange chunks to the brightness of the carrot. “Now for the parsnips.”

The wind moaned through the chimney and Hilary could feel the presence slowly getting closer as she worked. “I’ve got the soda bread I made at lunchtime on the counter. That will be perfect with a nice bowl of soup. Practically anything can go into soup.” She made short work of peeling the parsnips. “But not everything should go into a soup. At least, not all piled in together. You have to balance the ingredients for a good soup.” The parsnips were thick and sturdy and crisp under the knife. “These must be local and I think they’ve had the frost on them. That makes parsnips sweeter. They used to make them into cakes during the war.” Hilary added the diced parsnips to the bowl.

The presence was definitely intrigued and as its interest grew, the presence was stronger and behind Hilary and to the left, near the cellar door. Hilary pulled over two large onions. “These are country onions if ever I saw them,” she said. “The carrots, sweet potato and parsnips are all sweet. You need to balance that. I don’t think onions are sour or bitter, but they’re sort of anti-sweet.” She could feel the amusement from the presence. “They have a flavor all of their own.” She wrinkled her nose as she started peeling them. “I shall be crying by the end of it, I can tell. These are massive.”

The presence was drawing nearer, still invisible, but stronger than ever as it watched Hilary struggle with the onions. “I should have worn goggles,” she said, wiping her watering eyes with the back of her hand. “Or held a bit of bread in my mouth.” She tipped the first chopped onion into the bowl with the other vegetables. “I’m going to be a wreck by the time I finish this. But the stronger they are, the better the flavor. I’m not going for a delicate soup here. I want something to stick to my ribs.” Blinking through the tears, Hilary roughly chopped the second onion and added the final vegetable to the bowl. “Right, that’s the veggies done.”

She stood gracefully and filled a kettle at the deep, porcelain sink, carefully not turning around towards the presence. “If I was any sort of cook, I’d have home-made stock, but I’m not so it’s stock cubes and hot water.” She placed the kettle on the stove and set a large pan next to it. “People say you can make great stock from peelings, but what with storing and straining and messing around, I’d rather buy something from the supermarket.” She felt the question coming from beside her. “I’ll let the kettle boil and add the stock cubes later. Let’s get the vegetables cooking first.”

A generous splash of canola oil was added to the pan. “People think that a soup can be made with dumping ingredients in water, but you get a better result if you take a few moments to soften the veggies first.” Hilary eyed the oil and, as it was flowing freely, tipped the bowl of chopped vegetables into the pan. The hissing sizzle made the presence jump back for a moment and then lean forward. “Besides, a decent oil will make the flavorings stick.” Hilary grabbed a wooden spoon and gave the pan a quick stir. “You need a little oil to bring the taste out.” She carefully didn’t look at the presence. “How do you feel about garlic?”

“I likes it,” a small soft voice said. “I likes it plenty.”

Hilary reached for the garlic powder. “Then I’ll add plenty. It’ll add a nice contrast to the parsnips and sweet potato.” She stirred the pan again and added generous shakes of garlic powder. “I like chopped or crushed garlic for a stir fry or a stew, but garlic powder sticks better and flavors more in a soup or a dressing.” She stirred the garlic through, enjoying the scented steam from the pan as the vegetables and garlic mingled. “And spices. Do you like spices?”

“That’s rich and rare, mistress,” the voice said softly.

Hilary risked a quick glance. Standing next to her at the stove was a small human-like creature, about the size of an eight year old child, with lumpy features smeared with dirt and a torn, sack like dress. Her hair was tangled and her feet were bare but she peered, intrigued, at the pan. “What should I call you?” Hilary asked.

“I is Bracken, in general,” she said. “Are you going to use pepper?”

“I’m going to add pepper, of course,” Hilary said. “And there’s salt in the stock cubes. But it needs a little more. Parsnips always drink up the warmer spices so I’m adding cumin and turmeric, and plenty of them.” She pulled the jars from spice rack. “The farm shop didn’t sell these, and they’re not from Yorkshire.” She strewed the spices thickly over the vegetables and stirred again before putting the spices back. “And a dash of chili powder.” Hilary added the spice sparingly. “I’m not so keen on chili, but it adds a little spark.” The heat of the pan and the juices of the vegetables released the fragrance of the spices and the aroma drifted around the room. Hilary breathed in deeply, enjoying the exotic scents now filling her plain Yorkshire kitchen before adding a final grind of warm black pepper. She glanced quickly at Bracken before looking back at the pan. “You don’t see many brownies around.”

Bracken shifted nervously. “I isn’t happy in my position,” she said primly. “I seeking a different place.”

“I don’t know if I could pay you enough,” Hilary said. She crossed the kitchen to the row of cupboards. “Or I’d be happy to take you in.”

“You has a pleasant establishment,” Bracken said. “I is not looking for top wages as I is learning to cook.”

Hilary pulled out the jar of lentils. “Well, there’s no rush for you to leave,” she said, dumping a large scoop of red lentils into the pan and stirring vigorously. “Most people say that you should add the lentils after the stock, but I think it helps get the flavors into the lentils if you stir them in the oil. It helps the spices and garlic powder to stick.”

“My wages is a safe place to sleep, my foods and drink and a glass of milk every day,” Bracken said. She took a deep breath at her own daring. “And a coin at Christmas.”

“Hmmm.” Hilary kept stirring, turning the lentils through the softening vegetables and spice filled oil. “I could pay that,” she said. “And clothes for your back, just to be decent, and time off on Sunday.”

“That is a big wage and hard to earn,” Bracken said nervously.

“I’ll want you to keep the cottage clean,” Hilary said. “And some help with the baking.”

“I does learn to cook well, mistress,” Bracken said earnestly.

“Now it’s time for the water and stock cubes,” Hilary said. The kettle on the top of the stove was steaming and hissed and spat wildly as Hilary added it to the pan followed by two stock cubes. “And some herbs.” She smiled at Bracken. “These are from Yorkshire and I know that because I grew them myself.” She added a good sprinkling of dried parsley, oregano and coriander. “Spices go in with oil but dried herbs go in with water.” She gave a final stir, scraping across the bottom of the pan to dislodge the stuck lentils and then slid a lid on top. “Now it needs to simmer for a while.” She pulled the pan to the edge of the hotplate. “Would you like a cup of tea? Or would you prefer milk?” she asked.

Before Bracken could answer, there was a loud banging, a heavy fist thumping hard into the door. Bracken started. “That may be my former position,” she whispered.

Hilary looked down at the creature. Unlovely as she was, there was a sweetness about her and it seemed wrong that she should be flinching. “Stay there, Bracken,” she said and unlocked the door. “Who’s there?”

“You have something of mine!” an imperious voice rang out.

Hilary opened the door. Standing outside, tousled by the evening breeze, was something that looked like a man. He was tall and lean, looming over her, and his shoulder length dark hair was blowing around his thin face. Bright blue eyes bored into her. “You have something of mine,” he snapped.

“I have a guest,” Hilary said, “With all that entails.”

“You are new to this cottage and this domain,” the stranger said. “You don’t understand the ways of this place. Return my property or face consequences.”

“I is seeking a new situation,” Bracken squeaked from behind Hilary. “There is cooking in this place.”

“That’s enough!” He strode forward and there was a flash as he hit something invisible but entirely solid and collapsed.

“This is Rowan Cottage and it’s always been a witch’s cottage,” Hilary said, leaning forward. “Do you think anyone else could live here? And I do not tolerate any of the Fair Folk striding in without invitation.” She turned to Bracken. “What should I call him.”

“He is called Lord Peregrine by the Shadow Folk,” Bracken said nervously. “That is how I addresses him.”

Lord Peregrine staggered shakily to his feet. “You are a hag?”

“That’s rather a personal question,” Hilary said absently as she concentrated. A glowing light slid around the door frame and encircled Lord Peregrine. “I prefer the term Wise Woman. And Bracken stays with me now.” She could feel the tension leave Bracken but didn’t look around as she held the enchantment.

Lord Peregrine glowered. “You compel me,” he snarled.

“Just a little,” Hilary said. “I want to be clear. You do not come after me, not now in my own place or at any other time.”

“But you have something of mine,” Lord Peregrine grumbled.

“I has taken a new situation,” Bracken said, her voice trembling a little at her audacity in speaking. “As there is cooking here.”

Lord Peregrine looked over to the stove. “I can tell,” he said. “I still want compensation.”

“Compensation for a choice that wasn’t yours to make?” Hilary asked, raising an eyebrow. “Enter this night and be welcome this night.” The light around the door faded. “Come in and we can discuss terms.”

Lord Peregrine stepped warily into the shabby kitchen. “This has changed since I was last here.”

Hilary carefully grabbed the kettle with a potholder and refilled it. “When was that?” she asked. She set the kettle back on the center of the stove and then lifted the lid on the soup. The warm aroma that was already filling the room intensified. “You have to keep stirring this,” Hilary told Bracken. “Or the lentils stick to the bottom. Would you please help?”

“Yes, mistress,” Bracken said shyly and took the wooden spoon. It was a stretch for her until Hilary brought over a stool for Bracken to stand on. “Thank you, mistress.” She shot a scared, defiant look at Lord Peregrine. “I is cooking.”

“Those spices from distant lands and roots from the local fields make an unexpected blend,” Lord Peregrine murmured.

“Please take a seat,” Hilary said, waving a hand towards the long kitchen table. “You know that you cannot ask much. Bracken has her own mind.”

Lord Peregrine sank into a kitchen chair, his eyes fixed on the pan of soup. “If I can eat a bowl of soup, fresh and hot at this table, then I will be satisfied,” he said.

Hilary thought for a moment. “That’s agreeable,” she said. “Please keep stirring the soup, Bracken, and I’ll set the table.” She pulled bowls and plates from the cupboards. “I didn’t realize that there were the Fair Ones so local,” she said. She rinsed the earthenware teapot with hot water at the sink and set it on the counter next to the stove. “I knew that there were strong currents of power here, but it’s unexpected to have two guests, especially so soon after I moved here.”

“There are not many of us,” Lord Peregrine said, licking his lips as he kept his gaze on the soup. “And we struggle on with so many mortals.”

Hilary placed the bread on the table with the bread knife and pulled the butter from the fridge. She glanced at Lord Peregrine. Underneath his haughty bravado there was a weariness in him. She had felt the twisting of the currents when she first moved in, and now she could see that there was more work than she had expected. “I’m blessed by your presence,” she said.

Lord Peregrine’s thin lips twisted briefly in amusement. “These spices are costly. I have never scented such richness.”

“They’re not so expensive now,” Hilary said, pouring water from the boiling kettle over the black tea in the teapot. Are the vegetables soft, Bracken?”

“Yes, mistress,” Bracken said eagerly.

“Good, that means that it’s ready to eat.” Hilary smiled at the small creature. “Please sit at the table while I finish the meal.”

It took a few minutes to blend the soup and ladle generous helpings into the bowls, sprinkling with a little fresh parsley. The inexpensive, quick meal that Hilary had planned was obviously a feast for her guests and it felt humbling. She cut half a dozen slices from the loaf and sat down with her own bowl of soup. “Please eat,” she said. “There are more helpings in the pan if you’re hungry enough.” She poured tea into the mugs. “Help yourself to sugar.”

 The guests fell hungrily on the food, and all was quiet apart from the scrap of spoons, the murmur of the wood stove and the howl of the rising wind outside the cottage. Hilary found herself relaxing as the warmth from the spices filled her with each savory mouthful. The kitchen filled with contentment.

Lord Peregrine sighed, pushing away the faint remnants of his third bowl of soup and thickly buttering another slice of bread. “You are indeed a Wise Woman,” he said. “And I could use your aid with the currents of power that are so tangled at the moment.” He took a large bite of bread and butter. “But first I must ask you, now that you have Bracken here. Do you have room for a paying lodger?”

Hilary thought for a moment. It would be madness to invite one of the Fair Folk to live with her, especially as there was so much work to be done, and that was on top of her mundane work that paid the bills. But as the contentment in the kitchen wrapped around her with the scent of the soup, she sighed. The cottage was filled with empty rooms and the loneliness since she moved here was starting to bite. She watched Lord Peregrine carefully wiping the bread around his bowl to pick up the last traces of the soup. And it was such a pleasure to cook for appreciative appetites. “I will happily accept you as a paying lodger for now,” she said. “We can work out the details in the morning.” She stood and started collecting the bowls. “Tonight we have apple cake and cream for desert.” And the warmth of the kitchen seemed almost overflowing.

Also submitted to Royal Road

“My mum says that you’re the god of thunder.”

Taranis looked up from his game of dominoes at the skinny lad staring at him. Across the table, Cerne, god of the hunt, grinned. Taranis ignored the grin. “I was, lad, I was. I’m retired now, though, and don’t really get involved. You must be Dawn’s youngest.”

“She sends a pork joint to regular, but I think you’re a con artist and a fake,” the lad continued. “And I think you should stop taking advantage.”

Cerne placed his domino down. “Your move.”

Taranis looked at the lad. “It’s Owen, isn’t it? You drive that weird yellow Corsa and your mum told me that you were working with a plumber.”

“You see, that’s it!” Owen said. “Mum gets stuff like that wrong all the time. I’m apprenticed. It’s all legal and properly set out. Mr Barker looks after me and I try and do him proud. I work hard for my money, and so does my mum, and I don’t see why elderly scammers like you should have any of it.” He glared at Taranis. “And it isn’t a weird yellow. It’s a custom wrap. That car is better than anything you’ve ever had or ever will have!”

Taranis grunted, laid down his domino and took a drink from his pint. There weren’t many people in the old-fashioned pub, and they were all carefully ignoring the lad and his demands. “Are you sure that I’m a scammer. I got rid of that problem Josie had.”

“I think it would have gone on its own,” Owen said angrily. He turned to the distant rumble of thunder outside the door. “And don’t try and fake that was you. I saw the weather forecast. Just leave us alone.” Owen turned on his heel and stalked over to his friends waiting at the bar.

Cerne looked thoughtfully down at the dominoes, ignoring the sharp crack of thunder outside. “Of course, a lightning strike on the electrics would just be coincidence,” he remarked. “But it’s obvious that the car is his pride and joy. I’m going to have to knock.”

Taranis nodded as he perused the dominoes. “There’s one thing about lightning that everyone forgets,” he said. “It’s hot.” He lay down a double six.

Cerne narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to have to pass again. So, lightning’s hot. I thought it just started fires.”

“I’ve got a good view of the car park from here,” Taranis nodded at the angled mirror behind the bar that, to the right seat, showed the half dozen cars spaced out in front of the pub. “And I’ve still got decent aim.” He put down another domino with a smug grin.

Cerne pursed his lips and then managed to lay down a tile before standing and peering out of the window. “There’s a lot of smoke out there.”

Taranis nodded thoughtfully as he lay down his last piece. “I’m out. And it’s hard to explain all four tyres spot welded to the tarmac as coincidence, especially with nothing else touched.” Taranis drained his beer glass. “That’s three games all and it’s your round.”

Cerne watched the shocked murmur run through the few patrons before they all rushed out to see for themselves. “I bet you get an extra offering next time,” he grinned. “Same again?”

Taranis nodded contentedly as he watched the confusion outside. “Yep, same again.”

You can read a collection of stories starring Taranis and Cerne here

“The flowers are late!” I rushed into the kitchen, my wedding dress bunched around my waist and my veil askew. I looked at my husband-to-be. “I knew we shouldn’t have trusted that florist.” I took a deep breath. “And I knew we shouldn’t have got ready together. It’s supposed to be unlucky.”

Tim sighed. “It’s just nothing. It’s probably meant to allow the bride a little peace to get ready without the groom asking a lot of questions and causing fuss. We aren’t doing all the fuss.”

It made a sort of sense, but I was still frantic. “What about the flowers?”

“Can’t your little friends help out with that?” Tim asked.

“You know I don’t like you calling them that,” I said. I manouevred my skirt over a stool and sank down. “They’re the fair folk – if you have to talk about them at all.”

Tim walked over to me, put his hands on my shoulders and kissed me gently on the forehead. “Well, whoever they are took a lot of getting used to. I’m still not sure they approve of me. But I love you, friends and all, and don’t worry.” Tim grinned, that crooked grin that I loved so much. “Besides, they’re more like family, really, and we all have awkward family. I mean, you’ve met my Auntie Violet. She is far worse than misplaced car keys and iffy reception for the radio.”

I smiled back for a moment. “Lots of people call this house haunted, but it isn’t really. I just have friends.” My face fell. “But no flowers – and you know that the minister said he wouldn’t go ahead if we were late. We can’t wait around for the dratted florist. What are we going to do?”

Tim took my hands and gently squeezed them. “My darling, we agreed that this is about the marriage that we are going to have for the rest of our lives, not one day. We agreed that we would remember the things that went wrong as fun stories and not as awful events.” He grew serious. “I wish my mum was able to come, but we lost her last year. I wish your family was still here. I wish that your bridesmaid hadn’t eloped with my best man a week before it was all due to happen. I wish all sorts of things. The flowers, well, it’s just another story. As long as we get married, that’s all that matters. I love you.”

I smiled back. “I love you too.” I sighed. “I hope the fair ones are happy. They haven’t interfered so far, which is a good sign.” I disentangled my voluminous skirt from the stool and stood up. “They mean a lot to me.” I pulled myself up and settled my veil. “They’re the last of my family. Come on, we can’t be late. We can do without the flowers. Let’s go and get married.”

Tim led me outside ready to drive to the church, then stopped. I almost fell over as I bumped into him and then stared. A small bundle of wild flowers lay across the boot of the rental car.

Tim picked them up tenderly and looked around. “Thank you for this,” he said to the empty air. “An amazing gift on our wedding day.” He turned to me. “Your family have given their blessing. Let’s go and get married.” He looked around again. “And I’ll save you some cake!”

Everyone knew that Violet was fragile. She would happily and completely believe the last thing she saw on Facebook or YouTube and fall in love with whatever trend was rattling around the internet, before being completely crushed when it all ended badly. She was a sweet woman, with a heart of gold and a genius touch at the upscale salon she worked at, but she was vulnerable.

Then she discovered Instagram.

‘Hang on, I need to take a picture here,’ became her catchphrase. It even came out at a fast food place.

I looked down at my unremarkable burger. “It’s nothing special. Besides, you took one five minutes ago.”

“But now you’ve taken a bite,” Violet said. “It’s more of a statement.”

“Is it?” I looked down at the soggy bread and meat. “Well, you know best.”

“It’s all about the composition,” Violet said. She frowned for a moment. “Hang on…”

I stared in disbelief as she pulled a fake twig from the plastic pot next to us and laid it across my burger, before taking another picture. “I’m not so hungry after all,” I said. “I mean, that twig has seen some stuff.”

“Excuse me,” a manager had appeared. She had probably been watching for a while and half expected this. “I have to ask you to leave.”

“Why?” Violet said. “It’s just for my followers. You know that lots of people choose where they eat from what they see on social media…” She was still protesting as I hustled her out.

The trouble with Violet was that while she was the sweetest, kindest, loveliest friend anyone could ever ask for, she had the resilience and depth of a petal. There were times when I felt I could shake her. Not that it would have done any good. I had known Violet for years, and watched teachers and classmates try. Everyone liked her, when they noticed her, and she was cherished at her salon, but she was as substantial as a sunbeam. And I think that she felt it.

After some fairly traumatic attempts at making her mark, Violet finally settled on something. She was going to be an influencer. We couldn’t keep her away from TikTok any longer. She also registered on Pinterest, Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, and half a dozen other sites as well as setting up her own website on a free platform.

“Your site looks lovely,” I said, sincerely. Violet really did have an eye for design. “Perhaps you could share hairstyling tips.”

Violet shook her head. “The salon would have a fit if I did that, and I want to keep working there. I love my job. Besides, it’s quite a crowded niche. I’ve got a better idea.”

“It’s not cleaning, is it?” I asked. Violet’s flat was so clean that you could use any surface for open heart surgery, but it was quite soulless.

Violet shook her head then shrugged. “Sort of. Cleaning is a very full niche, but I think I can make my mark – old cleaning.”

“What?” I stared at her.

“Look at this,” she said, digging a book out of her bag. “This book is nearly a hundred years old, and it has a section on how to use a mangle.”

“What’s a mangle?” I asked, looking at the tattered book in front of me.

“It presses water out of clothes,” Violet said. “It’s a sort of early spin dryer, except that it doesn’t spin.”

“I don’t even know what one looks like,” I said, an uneasy feeling growing in my stomach.

“And it tells you how to make indelible ink – look!” she said, waving the book at me. “Take 20 grains of sugar and dissolve in 30 grains of water…”

“Water doesn’t have grains,” I said as she frowned over the old print.

“No, grain is a type of old measurement. It’s tiny, like a tenth of a gram or something. But it’s all in proportion. It’s two parts sugar to three parts water. Then you add sulphuric acid.”

“What!” I craned to see over her shoulder but the tiny, cramped printing defied me. “You can get Sharpies from the supermarket.”

“But that’s no fun.” Violet said. “Lots of people want to go back to homemade, natural treatments.”

“Sulphuric acid isn’t natural,” I said, “Or it shouldn’t be. Where could you get it from?”

“I can get hold of sulphur,” Violet said uncertainly. “How hard can it be?”

“Perhaps you should start with something easier that won’t terrify any followers,” I suggested.

“Hmm, perhaps,” Violet said. “But there are loads of old housekeeping books around that are going for pennies, and I can share them with my followers.”

I thought about it for a moment and I couldn’t see any pitfalls. “It sounds great,” I said. “Don’t forget to send me the links so I can follow.”

I kept an eye on things for a while. Violet was one of my oldest friends and a sort of distant cousin as well. She didn’t have much family, or at least family that was of use, so me and her other friends tried to keep her safe. And the influencer stuff was working for her. She was working hard, having fun and enjoying herself as her followers grew. To be honest, I was having a lot of fun as well. I went with her to flea markets and book fairs to scour the place for the old cookbooks and housekeeping manuals that she loved and we poured over them together in whatever cramped coffee shop we found afterwards. Violet was thriving.

Then she got the book. The slim, tattered volume was tucked in the back of a box of a trader at a collector’s fair, along with some random 1980s cookbooks, bought from a house clearance company. I ignored it, but it caught Violet’s attention. It was a small volume with old recipes and it seemed to call to her.

“Look at this,” she said, waving the book past my face. “It’s got little sayings around the edges of the text. Look – ‘Wilful Waste Makes Woeful Want’. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You always end up down if you waste stuff.”

I nodded hesitantly.

“And there’s a recipe for Wharfedale Pudding here. I’d never heard of that before,” Violet continued. “I can’t wait to try it.”

Work got busy for me, so I wasn’t meeting up with Violet so much. I followed her social media, of course. Every morning I dutifully logged in on all the different sites and liked and shared everything. I even skimmed the text over my morning coffee. I started noticing things, however. I remembered us chuckling over a facsimile copy of Mrs Putnam’s Receipt Book, which must have dated to the early nineteenth century. There wasn’t a mention of it in any post. There was hardly a mention of Soyer or Acton or Glasse or any of her staples. Instead it was all about that little book. She started every day with a tweet of one of the trite sayings printed at the edge of the page. There were dissections of the recipes and videos of her trying them out. There was even some quite deep research on the book’s background, which I didn’t think that Violet could manage.

But the articles seemed flatter and lifeless. There seemed nothing of the inner joy that Violet took in life. Even the language seemed different. Violet didn’t usually worry about spelling and grammar, but the over-correct text next to each picture was jarring. Finally I got a call from Violet’s boss at the salon.

“I haven’t heard from her all week,” Kylie said. “It’s not like her, and I’m more worried than anything else. Have you heard from her?”

“I’ve not heard a thing,” I said. “She’s still posting, though, so she must still be sort of okay.” Inside I was terrified. Violet lived for her job, and it was unheard of for her to risk it.

“I don’t think that means much,” Kylie said. “Violet was telling me how she sets posts up to go live weeks in advance, just in case.”

I felt a chill run through me. “I’ll call in at her place tonight,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

I wasn’t reassured when Violet opened the door. She had always been slim, but now she was barely skin and bones. Her eyes were sunken and her smile was strained. I stepped in before she had a chance to make an excuse. “Are you okay? What’s happened?” I almost stumbled when I went into the living room. Normally it was minimalist and sparse. Right now it was a mess. Plastic flowers and bits of twigs were heaped everywhere. Black coffee mouldered in half a dozen mugs scattered around. The curtains were closed even though it was bright outside.

“I’ve been a bit tired,” Violet said. “And I haven’t had much appetite. But I’ve had some meals from The Book.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. I looked around. “Where is it?”

“Hmm?” Violet’s eyes were losing focus and she was swaying.

I swore and grabbed her. “When did you last have something to eat?” I snapped as I guided her down on her chair.

“I made baked tomatoes for breakfast,” Violet murmured.

I stared at her for a moment. She looked like she hadn’t eaten in a month. “Hang on,” I said, and strode into the kitchen. It was full. Packets were stacked haphazard on the usually empty counters, and the bin was overflowing. Someone had been eating plenty here. I opened the fridge. It was full. Something weird was going on. I returned to the living room. “You need to see a doctor,” I said firmly. “You’re nothing but skin and bone.”

Violet shook her head. “Honestly, I’m fine. I’m just a bit run down.”

“Kylie is worried about you, you know,” I said. “Why didn’t you at least call her?”

“What day is it?” Violet asked. She checked the calendar on her phone. “What’s happened? I think I’ve lost three days.”

“You can come and stay with me,” I said. “I’ve got a sofa bed in the living room, and it will give you a chance to relax. Come on, I’ll grab your toothbrush.”

“I have to bring The Book as well,” Violet said.

“Which one?” I asked as I rummaged in her bathroom.

“You know, The Book. The one called ‘Good Things’. It’s been an absolute life saver. And it was written in 1896, you know.” Violet looked wildly around and then relaxed as she picked up her book. “Here it is.”

I frowned as I came back in. “Are you sure that’s it?”

“Yes, look – it says ‘Good Things’ on the front.” Violet said. “And I’ll need my camera as well.”

I didn’t feel better about things when I got Violet back to my flat. I settled her down and made her some cocoa. “Are you sure you won’t see a doctor?” I asked.

“I’m fine,” Violet said. “I’ve just been overdoing it. I’ll have a look through The Book and see if there are any recipes for invalids. That will make a good blog post.”

I dragged out spare blankets and pillows and then looked hard at the book. I was sure that it wasn’t the book I had thought. It was plump and sleek and it seemed to gleam a little under the living room light. “I’m just nipping to the shop for some bits,” I said. “And I’ll call in at the pharmacy as well.”

“Ask if they have any quinine wine,” Violet said. “The Book recommends it.”

I stumped off down the road and, when I was sure I was out of sight of my windows, rang Kylie. “I’m really worried,” I said. “But I can’t get her to see a doctor.”

“Perhaps some time with you will sort it out,” Kylie said, though she didn’t sound convinced. “And she’s owed some holiday time. She never takes time off.”

“It’s that damn book, I’m sure of it,” I said. “She’s following health advice from a time when they gave opium to babies and put arsenic on the wallpaper. I’ll pick up something more modern at the pharmacy in the supermarket.”

“Let me know how it goes,” Kylie said. “But I’m sure that you’ll work it out.”

Violet had fallen asleep when I got in, with the book tucked in close to her. I looked closer. It had ‘Good Things’ embossed on the cover, but I was sure that I remembered it differently. I went into the kitchen, pulled out my phone and started checking Instagram. And it was there! No-one would believe me if I just came out with the words, but the book changed. Over the weeks the thin, threadbare copy seemed to swell and the cover grew sleeker at every image. At the same time, the images showing Violet’s hands holding the book grew thinner and paler until they were almost skeletal. I couldn’t hear Violet moving, but I didn’t want to take a risk. I carefully shut down my phone and poked my head back into the living room. The book hadn’t moved, but I had seen far too many horror stories. I went back to the kitchen and texted Kylie. <Check the book in Violet’s Instagram. It’s the same, even though it changes.>

Kylie texted back. <Are you sure it’s the same book?>

<According to Violet, it’s the same book and the same printing is on the cover.>

<You need to burn it!> Kylie texted. <It’s possessed.>

<How am I supposed to burn it?> I texted back. <I’m in a second floor flat with no fireplace. Besides, Violet would never permit it. She’s even sleeping with it right now. The hard part is going to be getting hold of it. We can worry about what to do with it after that.>

<I have an idea.> Kylie texted back. <I’ll be there in an hour.>

I had doubts when Kylie arrived. “Are you sure about this? I’m not sure it’s ethical. I’m not sure that it’s even legal.”

“Desperate measures,” Kylie said breezily. “And do you have a better idea?” She pushed past me into the room and stopped suddenly. “What the hell is the matter with you, Violet? You should be in a hospital!”

Violet managed a tired smile. “I’m okay, really. I’m just a little run down.”

“We had burgers for dinner,” I said. “Proper meaty ones from the butchers, with chocolate pudding afterwards.”

Kylie looked at Violet in disbelief. Violet looked like she could be blown away like a dead leaf. “Well, I’ve got something that will pick you up,” Kylie said, recovering. “I’ve got a bottle of tonic wine for you and a bottle of prosecco for us.”

I still had reservations as I brought out three wine glasses. The tonic wine was strong stuff and though Violet had wolfed down three huge burgers and two helpings of pudding, she didn’t look like there was anything to mop up the alcohol. Then I caught sight of the gleaming book nestled in Violet’s lap. I didn’t like the idea of getting Violet drunk. But if that is what it took, then that is what I would do. “Tonic wine,” I said. “It’s like the quinine wine that the book recommends. It will be just what you need.” I watched as Kylie poured a generous glass for Violet and then two more reasonable measures for her and I.

“The Book is never wrong,” Voilet said, and took a mouthful. She blinked. “What is in this stuff?”

I picked up the bottle and looked at the label. “It says it has added iron.”

“That won’t hurt,” Violet said and took another large mouthful.

“You’re looking a little peaky,” Kylie said, ruthlessly topping up Violet’s glass. “Iron has to be good for you.”

It took two and a half glasses before Violet fell asleep. I exchanged an uneasy look with Kylie. It seemed more about exhaustion and lack of resources than a couple of glasses of wine. “Let’s get a blanket on you,” I said cheerily as I stretched Violet out along the sofa. “What you need is a good night’s sleep.”

“That’s absolutely right,” Kylie said, shaking out a throw and slipping it over Violet. The book fell out of Violet’s hands and onto the floor. Violet murmured and shuffled in her sleep, but the tonic wine was too much for her. Kylie automatically bent to pick up the book, but I stopped her. I nipped quickly into the kitchen and came out with a tea towel, which I used as a barrier as I picked up the book.

“I’m going to take a walk,” I said, marching briskly to the door. “Keep an eye on Violet, will you?”

Kylie nodded, her eyes wide and fixed on the book as I marched out of the door, phone in one hand and a book wrapped in a tea towel in the other. “Be careful!”

I moved with purpose, down one street, then another, then I cut across a park, past an arcade of shops and then down the back of the industrial estate until I got to the canal. I hesitated. I had seen Jumanji. Things could come back from a watery grave. Then I pulled myself together. That had been a wooden box, not a paper book. Besides, there were things in the canal that would clean brass. An old cookbook didn’t stand a chance. I found the footbridge, got to the centre and shook out the tea towel, sending the book into the water with a splash.

I stood there, almost transfixed by the reflection of the setting sun bouncing off the murky water. I expected something to show for it, like lights or explosions or steam. Then I got a text alert. It was Kylie.

<Violet is looking better. She has some colour in her cheeks. Have you done it?>

Yes, I thought, as I turned back to the flat. I’ve done it.