“I look forward to it,” Morrie snapped in a hurt tone. He turned over and yanked the blanket around him, leaving me with a tiny corner and Quoth with nothing at all.
Quoth’s leaned over the bed, back in his human form. His hand settled over mine. “Mina, if we light the candle, I could read the letter for you.”
My heart pounded. My fingers itched to hand it over. I desperately needed to know what it said. But I drew my hand back and shook my head. “I appreciate that, but I think I need to read it for myself. Which means there’s nothing else to do but wait for morning.”
“I can think of plenty to do,” Morrie pouted. But he didn’t turn back around or throw himself at me. He did, however, relinquish another foot of blanket.
I slid back down under the covers, all thoughts of sexy times fleeing my mind. Quoth slunk away into the gloom, and I heard the flutter of feathers as he shifted back. Heathcliff slid in the other side of me, draping his arm across my chest, steadying and protecting me with his bulk. My fingers traced the edges of the envelope. What did it contain? How was my father connected to Nevermore Bookshop?
Beside me, Heathcliff snored, his beard tickling my shoulder. The steady rhythm of Morrie’s breath caressed my skin. Only Quoth remained awake, high on his perch above the door. His eyes captured moonlight, piercing the gloom as they fixed on mine. We regarded each other.
Sleep, Mina, he said. I’ll watch over you.
But I couldn’t sleep. Not with Victoria Bainbridge whistling through her nose on the couch, Grimalkin’s tiny body purring against my foot and the strange-but-familiar house creaking and groaning, and the edges of the envelope resting against my fingers. I stared at the ceiling, my eyes grasping for some visual clue that never came. I went over the information we’d uncovered so far. But all it brought was more questions than answers.
My father came back in time to purchase books from Victoria and leave a note for me. But how did he know I would come here one day? Mr. Simson told the guys to watch out for me and that I was in danger. Was he trying to protect me from my father? Were they working together somehow? This building has been related to the book industry for a thousand years. Why? What about before Herman Strepel’s time? What was Nevermore Bookshop then? And how did it come to have these magical abilities? How long have fictional characters been appearing? How long has this very room been a portal through time? Is Mr. Simson a fictional character? Is he my father?
Outside, the sun rose over the village. Shop bells jingled. Lorries rumbled around the village green on their early morning deliveries. I rubbed my eyes, wishing the gloom would lift so I could see. But I would need the sun to be full in the sky and several more bright lamps before I could make out much of this room. The church bells tolled the hour. The door creaked open, revealing the hallway in the flat with all the lights still blaring, and our emergency equipment piled against the wall.
Grimalkin stood up, stretched out her body in a cat-yoga pose, then trotted back through the door.
I flung myself out of bed. “Let’s go!”
On the couch, Victoria startled. “Young lady, you might attire yourself properly before you leap about in fits of excitement!”
My cheeks burning, I grabbed my pajama bottoms from the floor, picking up a handful of the guys’ clothes and tossing them at the bed. Morrie yawned and slid out of bed, completely naked, his cock bouncing in front of Victoria’s face. “It’s been a pleasure.”
“Indeed.” Victoria’s lips curled back into a sneer so terrifying, Morrie’s cock grew soft under its power. He winced as he ducked his head under the door. Ancient builders never made doorways for someone of Morrie’s height.
Heathcliff pulled his clothes on under the covers and slid out of bed. Quoth fluttered down and perched on my shoulder as I stepped over the bags. “Thank you for my letter, Victoria,” I said. “I really appreciate—”
“Sword.” Heathcliff held out his hand.
“Goodbye, Wilhelmina.” Victoria gripped the hilt close to her and grinned back at us. Heathcliff looked ready to fight her for it. I shoved him toward the door. “Next time we meet, you’ll be covered in blood.”
“Wait, what do you mean by—” I didn’t get to finish my sentence before the door slammed in my face.
“Hey.” I banged my fist on the door. “Hey, Victoria? What did you just say? Why am I covered in blood? Whose blood is it?”
“Relax, gorgeous. As long as it’s not your blood, or my blood, who cares? I need coffee,” Morrie yawned.
“You’ll have to buy it yourself.” I shoved him toward the living room. “Because I’m going to read this letter and I don’t want your shitty attitude anywhere near me while I do it—”
My words died in my throat.
In the middle of the hallway stood a teenage girl, tall and slim with a fair complexion and brown hair curled into luscious locks around her face. But what was unusual about her – apart from the fact she was standing in the flat, which was supposed to be locked and empty – was what she wore: a white muslin dress with an empire waist that stretched to the floor, white gloves extending above her elbows, and a lace-edge bonnet hanging askance around her neck. I hadn’t been following the latest fashion trends since I left New York City, but I wasn’t aware that empire gowns and bonnets were back in style.
“Pardon me, handsome sirs.” The girl rushed toward us, picking up the hem of her dress as she stepped over our belongings. She elbowed me in the side as she rushed to Morrie and grabbed his arm. “I was on my way to London with a most delicious paramour. He has declared his undying love for me, and everything's just wonderful! Our coach stopped in the town for lunch, and I seem to have taken a wrong turn. A rather wrong turn, judging by the shabby nature of your establishment.”
“If you’re looking for the rest of the Jane Austen fruitcakes, they’re on the town green or up at Baddesley Hall,” Heathcliff muttered. “Now, get out.”
Of course. This was probably one of the festival guests, unable to find the country lane that led up to Baddesley Hall. “Let’s not be rude. I’m sorry you got lost. If you tell us what event you’re supposed to be at, Morrie will take you where you need to go. Do you need a cup of tea first? It’s awfully cold outside.” Snow and wind hit the windows in icy sheets, although I noticed the girl’s dress was dry.
“Thank you, but I’ve already made myself quite at home.” The girl gestured to the living room, where the coffee table was buried under a stack of empty teacups and a half-eaten box of Wagon Wheels. Sticky chocolate fingerprints covered the arm of Heathcliff’s chair.
Heathcliff shoved his way past her and launched himself at his chair. “Your bloody arse has ruined it. It took me years to get this chair just the way I liked it. Didn’t you read the sign?” He glowered at our visitor. “No customers upstairs.”
I turned to Heathcliff. “If you’d let me hang that illustrated map of the festival in the shop window, this wouldn’t be a problem.”
“It’s unbecoming for a lady to gloat over her perceived victories, especially when they are at the expense of such a worthy gentleman.” The girl batted her eyelashes at Heathcliff. When he scowled and looked away, she turned her attention to Morrie. “Ah, I see you are the gentleman of this group.”
“Yeah, Mina. No gloating. We can’t turn away a damsel in distress. We’ll call you a rideshare as soon as we get downstairs, ma’am.” Morrie clasped his hand over hers, flashing her his brilliant smile. His eyes darted to mine, daring me to protest.
What’s he doing? Why is he acting so childish?
“Pardon? I don’t understand. What is this rideshare? Is it the name of your horse? How are you rich enough to afford to keep a carriage? Are you foreigners? Your clothes are frightfully odd.” She inclined her head. “My name is Lydia Bennet, soon to be Lydia Wickham. I’m looking for my fiancé. Have you seen him?”
Chapter Four
“Lydia Bennet?” My words dried on my tongue. I rubbed my side where her sharp elbow had
caught me. “As in, Lydia from Pride and Prejudice?”
She squinted at me. “Did your mother drop you on your head? I said my name was Lydia Bennet, and I had no reason to lie about such things. As to your other insult, I have neither excessive pride, unless it be upon the handsomeness of my Wickham or the bonniness of my curls, nor unwanted prejudice! Since I have no reputation to speak of in this backward county, it could not have proceeded me. Yet you speak as if you know my name.”
“Ssssh,” Heathcliff snapped. “She doesn’t know who she is yet.”
Of course. This truly was Lydia Bennet, just as Heathcliff was the swoon-worthy hero of Wuthering Heights and Morrie was the Napoleon of Crime and Quoth was the bird who beguiled Poe’s sad fancy into smiling. The bookshop’s other power – apart from the room that traveled in time – was to occasionally bring characters from novels into the real world. That was how I ended up with my three guys. Until now, I’d only heard about the others – this was the first time I’d actually been present while it happened.
And for that fictional character to be Lydia Bennet, the Lydia Bennet – perhaps the most famous spoiled brat ever to grace the pages of literature – and for her to arrive during the Jane Austen Christmas festival just after we exited the bedroom… like Morrie always said, I didn’t believe in coincidences.
If I was being honest, I wasn’t that fussed with Jane Austen. Sure, her skill with witty conversation and satirical lampooning of the concerns of the upper class was second-to-none, but there weren’t nearly enough dead bodies, exciting mysteries, or – Darcy aside – swoon-worthy passionate heroes for my liking.
But that didn’t mean the prospect of getting to know Lydia wasn’t exciting. Provided she didn’t keep clinging to Morrie and shooting me that possessive look.
If Morrie was in the least bit as shocked as I was, he didn’t show it. He swept up Lydia’s hand in his and gestured toward the living room. “If you’d like to come with us, Miss Bennet, my friend and I shall explain everything.”
She giggled. “I’ll come with you to the ends of the earth, sir, if your friend consents to accompany us. Oh, what fun we shall have!”
I smiled at Lydia slipped her other hand through Heathcliff’s arm and led them boldly down the hallway. How quickly she’d forgotten her ‘dear Wickham’!
“Croak!” Quoth said, his tone disapproving.
“Exactly,” I agreed.
At least Lydia’s presence got Morrie out of my hair for the moment. As soon as they were out of sight, my mind flew again to the letter. I collapsed into Heathcliff’s chair, fortified by the smoke-and-spice scent of his body that had been woven into the fabric. Quoth fluttered down to rest on the chair arm. He used his beak to push over the arm of the reading lamp.
I turned on the lamp to light a circle across my lap and tossed aside a stack of books and yesterday’s Argleton Gazette with the sensational headline ARGLETON JEWEL THIEF STRIKES AGAIN! on the front page. I held the envelope close to my face, studying it from every angle. It was square, made of a thick cardstock that felt rough to the touch – homemade or recycled paper. On the front, my name was written in a cursive font with flicked ends that looked oddly familiar, although I couldn’t place the writing now. It was sealed with wax.
My hand trembled. I stared at my name for what felt like an age, my heart fluttering. I couldn’t reconcile this fine envelope and fancy handwriting with the sperm-donor who’d run out on my mother. For my entire life, I’d thought my father was a lowlife criminal who abandoned us. Mum never spoke of him, and she’d evaded every question I ever asked. I only knew the bare details of their relationship – she didn’t want me to grow up surrounded by criminals, so she and my Dad ran away to Argleton. When he couldn’t find honest work, he left us, and he’d never bothered to try and contact us. Mum had never even shown me a picture of him. To me, he was a ghost.
This letter made him real.
Quoth tapped the seal with his beak, twisting his head so his brown eyes regarded mine. Fire flared at the edges.
Whatever that letter contains, you can handle it, he spoke inside my head.
“I guess we’ll find out,” I said, slipping my finger under the wax and breaking the seal.
I pulled out a single sheet of paper, thinner than the envelope but of the same rough, handmade quality. It was folded into quarters, the edges neatly trimmed and filled with a hand-drawn ink border of leaping animals and tiny men carrying swords and shields. A few of the animals ran over the edges of the border, as though they were too wild to be contained. A date in the top corner set the letter about a year after I was born. That date had been crossed out, and another date written beside it. But that had been so rigorously scrawled through that I had no hope of reading it.
I sucked in a breath, and began to read:
My dear Wilhelmina,
I have left this message with Victoria for you to uncover on your visit. I have placed copies with Mary (in 1741) and Henrietta (in 1220), in case I was mistaken about the date you stepped through the bedroom door. When one is talking about time travel, it pays to be thorough.
This done, I will be leaving you.
It is not my wish to abandon you, but it is a father’s duty to keep his daughter safe. My enemy has made his move, and in the great game of chess we two play, it is now my turn. As long as he knows nothing of your existence, you remain safe.
Know that I will always love you, and you and your mother are forever in my heart. For as long as you remain in the protection of Nevermore Bookshop, he cannot harm you. But you must be careful. You are, after all, my daughter.
All my love,
H
I stared at the words until they lost all meaning, until they were just scratches of ink on the page. Even then, scratches made more sense. Quoth nuzzled my hand. I stroked the frill of feathers around his neck with trembling fingers.
My father was somehow connected to Nevermore Bookshop. Before he left my mother, he’d gone into the room upstairs and left a note for me in three different time periods.
But why?
A million questions danced around in my head. Who is this enemy? What does he want with my father, and why would he go after me?
Is he somehow connected to what Victoria said, about me being covered in blood the next time she sees me?
Why did this letter read like an intelligent, articulate man on the run from some kind of trouble? That didn’t at all match the image of my father as a drug-addled small-time criminal who ran out on his family because he didn’t want the responsibility.
What do you need? Quoth asked me.
I folded the letter and shoved it in my pocket. My head spun and pain throbbed across my temples. A lime-green neon light flicked across my vision. Please, no fireworks right now.
I didn’t know what I needed. Right now, Lydia Bennet was downstairs, Morrie was being a wanker, my eyes were getting worse, I hadn’t figured out how I felt about the guys and what almost happened last night, and the village was overrun with Jane Austen fans. I needed to not think about this.
I rose from the chair, steadying myself with the arm of the lamp and holding out my elbow so Quoth could hop on. I picked up the newspaper, showing him the headline about the jewel thief. I skimmed the text. According to the article, five stately homes in the area had been burgled in the last month. In each burglary, the only thing taken was jewelry. There were no signs of forced entry, and many believed the jewelry may have been missing for weeks or months before the thefts were noticed. Imagine being so rich you didn’t know when some of your priceless gems went missing.
The police asked anyone with information to come forward and warned residents to report any jewelry theft. Interesting. Immediately, my mind whirred through possibilities. It has to be someone who had access to the houses, like cleaning staff or a corgi groomer…
Mina, if we could return to the letter of the moment… Quoth hopped along my arm. What do you need?
I grinned. “I need to s
olve a mystery, one that doesn’t involve my life. What do you say, Quoth? It’s no murder, but catching a jewel thief might be just what I need.”
Inside my head, a raven sighed.
Chapter Five
“Oh dear. It’s all very strange.” Lydia sat in the window seat opposite the Classics shelves where she had first appeared. She waved a fan in her face. It was difficult to tell under her makeup, but she looked pale and frightened, although she hid it well with her pouting expression. “I don’t much enjoy books, and to discover I am a character in one is a horrible tragedy!”
“You’ll get used to it,” Morrie cooed. “You’ll also find many things about this world to be an improvement over Longbourn. For one thing, the takeout food is infinitely better. Have you ever had a rogan josh? It’s divine – the food of the gods.”
“You mean to tell me I won’t see my Wickham again? Or my parents or sisters? I admit that Mary’s a frightful bore, but I will probably miss Kitty. And how am I to keep myself? I have no money with me, no fortune of my own.” She cast a critical eye between Morrie and Heathcliff. “I see no wedding bands. You are both bachelors, and handsome enough. One of you must do the honorable thing and marry me. I demand it!”
Yup, Lydia’s really cut up about losing her beloved paramour.
“You don’t need a husband in this world,” I said. “This thing called feminism happened, and now women are able to make their own living and choose their own future. We can have a career and make our own money, so we don’t need husbands—”
“Women have no husbands? They have jobs? What nonsense is this?” Lydia’s shriek shook the window panes. She waved her gloved hands in front of my face. “These fingers are not made for labor! They are for sensuous caresses of my husband’s shoulders and slapping the cheeks of impertinent servants!”
“We also don’t have servants anymore—”
Pride and Premeditation Page 3