The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3) by Emmy Ellis (smart books to read .TXT) 📕

coming, along with milder days for a week or so, a fake spring making an appearance.

She approached the Fayre, as giddy as a young girl at the sight of the tents and stalls set out in a massive circle on the frozen ground, people milling around on the grass in the enclosed area, The Beast towering high above them right in the middle of it all.

It resembled a market in a horseshoe shape, but at the top was Clive the Clown’s red-and-white-striped tent, the largest, with its white ball on top, same as a newel post. To either side, just behind, were purple-and-white ones, flags flapping in the breeze. The medium one on the right belonged to Betty’s daughter, Liz, who’d taken over Bloom’s once her mother had died, and the smallest, to the left, was the somewhat eerie weekend home to The Old Mystic.

Times past, Cassie had wanted to go in, but of course, Dad had said no, she was too small for the likes of fortunes being told and, “You don’t want to be believing anything that comes out of that baggage’s mouth. She speaks a right load of horseshit—and don’t tell Mam I swore.”

Now, though, she could make her own decisions and, as she walked through the crowd, nodding at anyone who dared to make eye contact, she headed straight for the little tent.

Sod’s law, Doreen stopped her.

“All right, duck?”

“Fine, ta. Finally got some breathing space.” Cassie smiled. “Everything’s been put to bed. Well, everything I can manage anyroad.”

“Good. I’ve just been having a natter with Lou. She said she’s been busy lately, made a point of saying it, too, but that she’d come and find me in a bit to talk about some things she has on her mind.”

“Well, she won’t be busy anymore.” What’s on her mind? The murders? Is she planning to tell Doreen?

“Oh.” Doreen folded her hands over her belly, her coat open, showing a white blouse beneath. “I won’t pry.” She pointed to the knitted willy warmer stall. “Brenda’s over there. Said she’d be talking to you about her client on Monday.”

“Right.” Cassie’s shoulders slumped. There couldn’t be a problem else Brenda would have WhatsApped, but the mention of work had erased some of her good mood. Couldn’t she have just one day where it wasn’t mentioned? “Well, I’m off to see The Old Mystic for a laugh.”

“I wouldn’t joke about her.” Doreen sucked her lower lip. “She’s a right creepy one, she is. I went to see her, God, must be a decade ago now, at her house, you know, so no one knew I’d gone. She told me a few things I’d kept a secret, and I fair shit myself, I did.”

“So you think she actually knows things?”

“She does, although she couldn’t tell my future for some reason, only my past. If you’re still of a mind to chat to her, be warned, you might come out a different person.” Doreen patted Cassie’s arm. “Speak to you soon.” She walked away, vanishing into a huddle of people close to The Beast.

Cassie shivered, remaining in place. Should she go and see Mystic? There were so many things she wanted to ask about Dad, but then again, she couldn’t if she wanted his mistakes to remain hidden.

Maybe she knows about them already.

Cassie pulled herself upright and walked on with a ‘no one tells me what to do’ attitude, skirting around the pegs in the ground from the ropes on Clive the Clown’s tent, then pausing in front of Mystic’s. The flap was closed, so someone must be inside. Cassie read the whiteboard easel with a poster stuck to it stating the prices.

CRYSTAL BALL: £10

PALM READING: £20

TAROT CARDS: £25

SOUL SEARCHING: £50

Soul Searching? What the hell was that?

“I know you’re out there, Cassie Grafton.”

Cassie jumped, looking around, then eyed the flap. It didn’t have any gaps in it, so how the hell had Mystic seen her?

“Come in. Soul Searching is what you need. A nudge to let you know your thoughts and emotions are telling you something.”

Dread swirled in the pit of Cassie’s stomach, and she turned to walk away, needing to surround herself with people instead of feeling vulnerable and alone while a disembodied voice spoke to her.

“If you walk away, you’ll make the biggest mistake of your life.”

She paused, her breath catching. The voice was wizened, strong yet calm, coming from a woman who commanded respect and inspired fear. Cassie hadn’t bothered visiting her when she’d taken over from Dad, the only resident she’d steered clear of to let them know she was in charge—Mam had advised her to leave the old woman be. Now, Cassie wished she’d ignored the advice and introduced herself so at least she wouldn’t be afraid. And she was afraid. Despite her bravado, the fear she inspired in people, she was uneasy.

She glanced around. Typical. No one stood nearby, not even any kiddies wanting to see Clive, although laughter and clapping abruptly rang out inside his big top; the clown must be doing a show. Liz sat behind one of the tables in her tent, head bowed as she created a bouquet, and while Cassie could walk over there and ignore Mystic’s command, she didn’t.

She reached out and drew the flap across, expecting a pentagram sprayed on the grass inside, candles lighting the place, a creepy vibe going on, but it was nothing like that. Two purple wingback armchairs sat adjacent to one another, a table in front of one, the top pulled over Mystic’s blanket-covered legs. A tall standard lamp with a purple velvet shade, tassels dangling, stood behind her, lighting the woman in a scarlet glow from what must be a red bulb. To the rear of the other chair, another lamp with a normal light, although it was low and only illuminated the seat.