Free The Witches of Cambridge by Menna van Praag

said—have you been reading my feelings again? You promised you wouldn’t do that anymore.”
    “I didn’t say anything,” Amandine says. “And I wish I could stop doing that.” Her voice drops so low they can barely hear her above the breeze. “I can’t.”
    “You told me,” Kat protests, “you told me you could.”
    Amandine gives an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry, I can’t really help it.”
    Kat turns to Héloïse. “Did you know?”

    “ Bien sûr .” Héloïse gives a slight shrug. “You forget my psyc—at least, before…”
    “Bloody hell.” Kat sighs and sinks her head to her knees. She looks up. “At least Cosi doesn’t know. And, God forbid, George.”
    “Cosi?” Noa asks.
    “My sister. Luckily she’s neither an empath nor psychic,” Kat says, casting dark looks at Amandine and Héloïse in turn. “And George, well…”
    Noa regards Kat more closely. Then she stands. “Well, I guess I’d better go. I didn’t mean to ruin your book group. I don’t mean to be a bitch. I just, I can’t seem to…whatever I see, I just say it.” She turns and walks toward the ladder. When her left foot is on the first rung she turns back to the three witches. “Please forget what I said.”
    “You’re not a bitch,” Amandine says. “You just see what you—”
    “Shouldn’t,” Noa finishes. “I know. I don’t want to…I see things about people, it rises up like a sneeze, and I just can’t swallow it back down, no matter how hard I try.”
    “You don’t need to go,” Amandine says.
    Noa sighs. “I already told you that you think your husband is having an affair with some sexy lawyer at his firm. Also, you haven’t had sex with him in nearly two months.” She looks at Héloïse. “You still talk to your dead husband at the breakfast table every morning and every evening you wonder if you should swallow that bottle of paracetamol in your bathroom cabinet.” Noa looks at Kat. “And the real reason—”
    “Enough,” Kat snaps.
    “I’m sorry,” Noa says. “You see, I’m no fun to be around. No one wants to be friends with a human lie detector test.” She climbs down onto the second rung of the ladder. “Thank you, Professor Bisset, it was kind of you to invite me to your book group. I’m sorry I spoiled the meeting.” She steps down to the third rung. “Apologies to you all.”

    And, with that, her blond bob disappears behind the red brick.
    —
    “I feel awful for the poor girl,” Amandine says. “Can you imagine living like that?”
    “That’s your problem,” Kat says with a sniff. “You’re too nice.”
    “I am not,” Amandine protests. She can’t stop thinking about what Noa said about the paracetamol, but she’s nervous to ask her mother if it’s true. “I absolutely am not.”
    Héloïse pats her daughter’s knee. “I’m afraid you are, ma petite , you always have been. When you were a little girl I had to teach you not to apologize all the time. At school, if a child trod on your toes, you’d say sorry. If someone stole your lunchbox, you’d say sorry…”
    “Okay, okay,” Amandine says. “I get it.”
    —
    The three witches sit in a booth at Gustare, drinking coffee and eating pistachio cream croissants for breakfast. After the book group fiasco the night before, Amandine had persuaded them to meet again the next morning to settle themselves and partake of a little caffeine and empty but delectable calories. Kat didn’t need much persuading and together they dragged Héloïse along.

    “She’s an interesting case,” Kat admits. “That’s quite a brilliant gift to have, being able to see people’s secrets, if slightly less brilliant for the people being seen.”
    “I feel for her,” Amandine says. “It can’t be easy going through life like that; I’ll bet she doesn’t have many friends.”
    Héloïse sips her coffee and sighs. “ Exactement . You worry about a stranger. You should worry instead about your own