Free Circle of Nine: Circle of Nine Trilogy 1 by Josephine Pennicott Page A

you?’ the woman said, as she placed my purchases in a small brown bag.
    ‘Yes,’ I replied, squirming at the thought of how she might have recognised me. A blurred photo in the paper? A two-second flash on a news report, perhaps?
    ‘I was so sorry about your aunt,’ she said. ‘It’s one of the worst things that has ever happened up here. Ghastly. It’s hard to imagine that there are such evil people out there.’
    ‘Did you know her?’ I asked, unable to resist finding out another snippet of information.
    ‘Not really, love. Mainly by sight. She was one of the local characters, you know. Well, the population of Katoomba is under 10,000, so anyone a bit different is going to stick out. She came in here a couple of times, looking for books on witchcraft and whatnot. She was a nice old thing.’
    I tried to avoid tapping into her thoughts. I could probably imagine what she thought of my taste in literature.
    ‘She displayed quite a few of her paintings in The Silver Hen,’ she said. ‘I think Wendy, the owner, was quite friendly with her.’
    After getting a detailed description of where The Silver Hen could be located, I left the shop, the sounds of a Bach CD spilling out onto the street after me.
    Turning into one of the many little shopping avenues off the main road, I passed a hand-made chocolate shop. Staring into the luxuriant display of sweets was a schoolboy. He turned as I was walking past and I banged into him.
    ‘Oh, sorry!’ I said, reaching out a hand automatically to touch him. A faint buzzing, like a shock, zapped my arm, and I stepped back. He glared at me and ran off. Where had I seen him before? I frowned, suddenly feeling sick and disorientated. His face was familiar to me. Was he some sort of child actor? I paused, trying to remember his pointed, knowing face, his red-and-grey school cap and dark grey blazer.
    I was still trying to remember when I pushed open the door of The Silver Hen. A bell sounded, which brought the owner out from a back room, curtained off with gold and blue beads.
    ‘Hi, can I help you at all?’
    She was tall and thin, with dark hair cut short, and an attractive face with striking bone structure. Around her neck was a large silver pentacle. There was a pause while we studied each other. Outside, I could hear the wind moaning and rushing with chill intent, and I shivered. Her dark eyes widened.
    ‘I’m sorry, but are you Emma Develle?’
    I nodded, trying to force my lips into a smile, while I tried to take in the art gallery. There seemed to be paintings, and sculptures and photographs and ceramics, piled into every area of the room.
    ‘God! I feel awful! I should have come up and said hello before. I’ve just been so busy with the shop, and Jeremy’s been sick. You’ll probably think I’m terribly rude. But then I thought perhaps you might like time to settle in, before the locals start descending. I’m Wendy, anyway.’
    The flood of words rushed over me. Warmth, acceptance. I realised how lonely and alienated I had been feeling by the too-eager way I shook hands. I looked around the gallery.
    ‘Wow, what a place.’
    ‘Do you paint? I’m sure you do. Johanna was such a great talent. I’ve had some of her works here. I sold heaps after she . . .’ She broke off, looking embarrassed, as if suddenly realising how tasteless it must have seemed to enthuse about Johanna’s murder stimulating demand for her artworks.
    ‘I do, but my stuff is completely different to Johanna’s.’ Now I was back on familiar turf. Gathering my courage, I pulled my portfolio out of my bag. ‘I was hoping that I could exhibit my stuff in a couple of the local stores. Would you mind having a look to see if you would be interested?’
    She took the book, smiling. While she riffled through it I feigned interest in a shocking-pink ceramic cow.
    ‘These are great. Yeah, I could put some up for you. I’d especially be interested in those abstracted landscapes. Tourists are our