Witch Is When My Heart Broke by Adele Abbott

Author:Adele Abbott [Abbott, Adele]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, Mystery, Supernatural, Vampires, Werewolves & Shifters, Cozy, Crafts & Hobbies, Mystery & Detective, Witches, Witches & Wizards, Sagas
ISBN: 9781530683123
Publisher: Implode Publishing Ltd
Published: 2016-03-29T21:00:00+00:00

***

While I was in Cuppy C, I went to check on Barry. He was exhausted; he’d just come back from a walk with the twins.

“Hi, Barry. How are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. I like to sleep. Do you like to sleep, Jill?”

“Yeah. When I’m tired.”

“I love to sleep. Oh, by the way,” Barry yawned. “Hamlet said he wanted to see you.”

“Did he say why?”

“No.” Barry’s eyes were almost closed.

“Okay.”

I walked down the corridor to the box room where I found Hamlet, glasses propped on the end of his nose, reading the rodent edition of Wuthering Heights.

“Not something I’d normally read,” he said. “But not bad at all. Heathcliff is a nasty piece of work. Have you read it, Jill?”

“No, but I thought the song was good.”

“Song?”

“Never mind. Barry said you wanted to see me.”

“That’s right. Thank you for dropping by. Look, I’ll get straight to the point.” He put down his book, and moved across to the bars of the cage so that we were nose to nose. “You know that I’m now running a regular book club?”

“So I understand.”

“Well, we’ve had the most astounding news.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“Horatio Moore has agreed to visit our club to give us a reading from his latest book. I can’t tell you what an honour that is. I assume you’re familiar with him?”

“Is he a footballer?”

Hamlet rolled his eyes in disgust. “No, Jill. He isn’t a footballer. He’s one of our leading contemporary authors.”

“I can’t say I’ve seen any of his books in the bookshop.”

“He’s not a human author. He’s one of the most famous hamster authors of our day. It’s a great honour that he has agreed to pay us a visit.”

“I’m very pleased for you. I’m sure it’ll be great.”

“Yes, but look at this.” He pointed to the cage.

“What about it?”

“Look at it. It’s cheap. It’s tacky.”

“It cost me seventy-five pounds.”

“It’s altogether too small, and has no style. I can’t possibly ask Horatio Moore to come and read to us in here.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“You’ll have to buy a bigger one, of course. Something befitting of Horatio Moore.”

“A new cage? You’ve only had this one five minutes.”

“Would you invite a famous author to come and read in here?”

He had a point; it was a little on the small side. In my defence, when I bought it, I hadn’t anticipated that it would be used for a book club or for visiting famous authors.

“So, you want me to buy you a bigger cage?”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I can trust you to get it right. It’s not just a question of buying a larger cage. It has to be stylish. It needs to have a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.”

“I don’t know what that means.” I laughed at my own joke; Hamlet remained stony-faced.

“I’ll have to come with you to the pet shop,” Hamlet said. “That way, I can make sure you don’t come back with any old tat.”

“You want me to take you with me?”

“That’s right. Any

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