Gerri raised her eyebrows. “From what I’ve seen, he notices every little thing about you.”
“We’re just good friends.”
“With benefits?” Flora asked, giving a pantomime wink.
“Mum! You know full well what that means. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“I’m assuming friends who help and support each other?” she replied innocently, while Gerri tried not to laugh. “He’s been so good, running you around when your car broke down, driving the van to pick up bigger pieces of furniture.…”
“Right, firstly please don’t ever use that expression again. Secondly, Liam and I are perfectly happy with the way things are between us, thank you very much.”
Flora and Gerri pointedly exchanged looks that clearly told her they thought otherwise.
* * *
Later, after she had shut the shop for the day, Xanthe said goodbye to her mother and headed for The Feathers. Her irregular but increasingly frequent chats with Harley had become an important feature of her week. While Benedict Fairfax might not have shown himself again, he was still ever on her mind, and her determination to be ready for him next time she saw him occupied her thoughts whenever she was alone. However, between the shop, Flora, the band, and of course, Liam, it was difficult to find clear time to focus on the madness of what she had experienced since moving to Marlborough. Sometimes the pull of normality and the wish to believe all was safe and sensible prevented her from facing what she knew, in her heart, had to be faced. The fact that Fairfax never did anything without a reason. The fact that he was not a man to give up on something he wanted. The fact that he had proved himself capable of doing anything in order to further his own interests. Which was why she felt blessed to have Harley—publican, local historian, hairy biker, and true friend—as a confidant. He alone knew the truth of where, and more important when, Xanthe went when she was away from Marlborough. He knew about the Spinners; she had shared their secrets and their precious book with him and no one else. And she had told him about Fairfax. Speaking with Harley about so many impossible things made her feel just a tiny bit less crazy, and a tiny bit more in control of what was happening. And now that she had decided to properly study the Spinners’ writings she was eager to test her theories about its contents with him.
She found Harley fixing new window boxes to the sills of the pub. He was a burly man, big rather than fat, but not in the best of shape. She heard him puff a little and curse quietly in his endearing Scottish lilt as he wrestled the heavy, soil-filled boxes into position.
“I’ve never thought of you as a gardener, Harley. Will you be arranging flowers next?”
“You are so bloody funny. Don’t just stand there, hen, hand me that hammer, would ye?” He gestured at the pile of tools on the pavement. Passersby were forced to step into the street to avoid the muddle.
“Must be spring,” said Xanthe, passing him the hammer. “Window boxes going up, Harley sighted out from behind the bar.”
“Not for long,” he said, taking a large staple from the pocket of his biker’s leather jacket, placing it through the flower box stay, and bashing it into place. She watched him work for another five minutes. At last he was satisfied, brushed mud from his hands, and picked up his tool kit. “Right, that’s me done. I’ll leave the tending of the plants to Annie. Come away inside. Winter might be over but it’s still cold enough to freeze a man’s ears off, if ye ask me.”
The pub was in its late-afternoon lull: lunch service over, evening meals not yet started, and no live music scheduled. Harley grabbed two bottles of Henge beer from behind the bar, removing their tops with practiced ease, signaling to his wife and the young man working with her that he was going upstairs. Xanthe, after pausing to say hello to Annie, followed him up the slightly wonky staircase to the apartment on the floor above. The sitting room was warm, comfortable, and in its customary state of barely contained chaos. Harley moved a stack of motorbike magazines from one of the worn leather sofas and subsided onto it, handing her a beer as she joined him.
“Did you bring the time travel manual with you?” Harley asked with the now familiar note of awe that crept into his voice when he spoke about the Spinners tome.
She nodded, taking the old leather volume from her bag and passing it to him.
Harley took a swig of ale and wiped his beard with the back of his hand, then wiped his hands on his trousers before carefully, almost reverently, taking the book from her. “This is an incredible thing you have in your possession, hen.”
“I read a little every day and still there is so much to learn. It’s not just the stories; there are maps, drawings, poems, recipes, spells even. It’s crammed full of stuff. The tricky thing is working out what’s real. I mean, what’s instructions, and what’s just, I don’t know, cautionary tales?”
“Aye, it’s not your straightforward user’s manual, that’s true enough.”
“Sometimes I feel stupid not being able to properly understand what I’m reading. Some pages make more sense only because I’ve been back in time. I can relate parts of what is written to my experiences but, well,” she gave a shrug, “it’s easy being wise after the event. What I need is clues for what I do next. How to use what I’ve learned to travel better. Safer. With more control.”
Harley smiled. “I’m just pleased I can see anything written there at all,” he said, referring to the fact that Spinners did not reveal its contents to everyone. Xanthe had wondered about this fact since they had first discovered it. The book could not be copied, nor could it be read by just anyone. Why had it chosen to let Harley see its secrets? He did not have her gift of psychometry, nor did he ever glimpse the past. No objects sang to him, and when she had taken him to see the blind house in the garden he had detected nothing strange or magical about it at all. In the end, she had concluded that Spinners wanted him to be able to help her. It shared its wisdom and stories with him just enough for him to be able to give her his support and input. The subtlety of the way the book guarded its knowledge astonished her. It also made her feel all the more privileged. It was as Mistress Flyte had told her. She was a Spinner. Her journeys through the centuries had not been random experiences, caused by stumbling upon powerful objects and coming to live near the blind house. It was all meant to be. She was learning who she was, or at least, what she could become. She briefly entertained the thought that one day she might be able to travel back and visit her friend and mentor, and the thought of having such control and such freedom thrilled her.
“Do you think it’s what your man is after?” Harley’s question broke into her thoughts.
“Spinners?”
“Aye. Is that why he’s found his way here, to this time?”
“He wants something, there’s no doubt about that. And I’m actually rather hoping it is the book he’s come for. Because if it’s not, then the only other reason he would go to the trouble and the risk of spinning time to get here is…”
“… for you,” Harley finished her sentence.
“It’s not a pleasant thought.”
Harley gave a snort. “You’re right about that, hen. From what you’ve told me the man’s a right bastard.” He took another long gulp of his beer, his expression thoughtful. “Way I look at it is, whether it’s the book he’s after or taking his revenge on you for tricking him the way you did, well … one way or another he’s trouble. But you’ve not seen him again?”
“No, still just the one time, standing at the top of our street. But I know he’s close.”
“You sure you’re not imagining that? I mean, it’s understandable you’re spooked, but if he hasn’t turned up again maybe it was just a one-off and he’s gone back to wherever—whenever—he came from.”
“I wish I believed that, but I don’t. I know he’s still around. I can sense his presence, sometimes really strongly. I think he’s waiting for something. And then…”
“… and then?”
Xanthe drank deeply from her beer bottle
. She paused, taking a breath. “Mistress Flyte was right. He’s not a fit person to have something so powerful. A Spinner should respect the order of things, the way things are meant to be. They shouldn’t change them to suit their own purposes.”
“No pressure then.” Harley shifted his not inconsiderable weight, making the leather sofa creak. “In the meantime, you’ve plenty on your plate with the band. Annie says we’re lucky to book you now!”
She smiled. “I’ll always find time for The Feathers, you know that. Actually, it’s Liam who’s elusive at the moment. He’s been really busy with work. He’s up in Oxford today delivering a recent restoration. A beautiful blue Jaguar.”
“Hell’s teeth! Has he won you over to classic cars too? He must be even more bloody charming than he looks.”
Xanthe recalled the first time she had seen Liam and how his good looks had made her wary of him, her experience of beautiful men up to that point not having been entirely positive. He had worn his hair cropped short then, giving an edge to his appearance. Lately he had grown it out a little, causing her to tease him about being a secret surfer. The truth was, he’d look highly appealing either way. “I’m just quoting him,” she said. “He’s been so passionate about the thing it would be hard not to remember what it was. Anyway, he’s doing a second one for the same enthusiast. He said it’ll take another few weeks. He should be more available for gigs after that.”
“Let’s hope so. We miss your singing, lassie.”
“Trust me, the other members of Tin Lid won’t let him get away with much more shirking.”
* * *
As always after her chats with Harley, Xanthe felt reassured. She was not dealing with everything on her own anymore. Whatever her future as a Spinner held, she had a confidant. A part of her was sorry it wasn’t Liam. Their friendship mattered to her and they had become closer since Christmas, so she was increasingly uncomfortable about keeping secrets from him. And time travel was a pretty big secret. She wondered, briefly, what would happen if she allowed herself to truly care for him. If she let herself fall for him she knew he would be waiting with open arms to catch her, but would she ever be able to tell him about the Spinners? Could he understand? Would he even be able to believe her? It was a lot to ask. And then there was Flora to consider. The more people who knew about her other life, the greater the chance that her mother would find out. Would she be terrified at the thought of what her daughter had been doing, and would, Xanthe knew, continue to do? Would she beg her never to step through the blind house again? If coming to terms with her own abilities and true identity was challenging, sharing it with people who cared about her seemed one of the biggest challenges. And yet increasingly she was drawn to the idea that she should tell her mother everything. In fact, there were days when she came close to doing so, when her excitement about being a Spinner came close to making her blurt it all out. Flora had long accepted that Xanthe had the gift of psychometry; surely she of all people would be the most accepting, even of something so incredible.
By the time she left the pub it was nearly seven, properly dark, and cold enough to remind her that spring was still in its infant days. The peal of the church bells sounded through the thickening air of the evening, seemingly suspended in the damp chill that was descending. Not for the first time she was reminded that Flora had her own life outside the shop now, her own friends, her own interests. Her joining the Marlborough bell ringers had been a significant step toward that. As the ancient iron bells pealed on Xanthe allowed herself to take comfort from this. There would, one way or another, she believed, come a time when her mother would have to do without her. It was good that she was establishing herself in the community of Marlborough, slowly but surely. It lifted a little of the weight of responsibility from Xanthe’s shoulders. As she walked she fancied she detected an urgent note to the tolling of the bells. Their usual celebratory pealing appeared to have been replaced with something more like a warning.
In the wide main street the daytime bustle had been replaced by the early evening crowd. There were workers heading home, some pausing to take advantage of happy hour in their favorite pub or a glass of wine in a lively bar to signify the switch from business to leisure time. Others were on their way out, striding purposefully to the supermarket for their shopping, or arm in arm, destined for one of the many quality eating places. All was happily familiar and quietly lovely. And yet Xanthe could not shake off a feeling of unease. Her stomach tightened, and she was aware of a nervousness in her posture. However safe and normal things were around her she could not rid herself of the thought of Fairfax and the feeling that he was somehow watching her, whether from the shadows in the doorways of the old shops and houses, or via a vision granted him by some device even though he might have been centuries distant. Either way, she felt his presence. She quickened her step, wishing only to be home talking to Flora, enjoying light conversation and sharing simple food. It was as she turned down the narrow cobbled street in which their shop was situated that she became convinced she was being followed. She dared not look around; did not want to see who might be there. She strode on, resisting the urge to run, telling herself there was no real danger with so many other people about. She reached the shop door and fumbled in her bag for the key. As she tried to wriggle it into the lock she felt the unmistakable sensation of warm breath upon the back of her neck. With a half-suppressed shout she wheeled around, the bunch of keys held high ready, to strike.
Liam raised his hands in supplication. “Hey! No need for violence.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Liam!” She felt relief surging through her, and yet fear remained, real and powerful. For an instant, Liam’s features were clouded, indistinct, as if shadowed by something, and a fierce sense of peril emanated from him. It made no sense. She shook away the unwelcome emotions, telling herself she was simply reacting to a moment of panic and to being startled. “You scared me half to death, creeping up like that. What were you thinking?”
“That I’d surprise you? That you’d be pleased to see me?” He dropped his hands and laid them gently on her shoulders. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I thought you were in Oxford,” said Xanthe, the sound of her galloping heart still pounding in her ears, taking its time to settle.
“I was. The guy was thrilled skinny with the car. All done and dusted really early so I hurried on home to see you. Thought I could take you out to dinner to celebrate getting paid for the work on the car.” He smiled, his pale blue eyes catching the light from the street lamp, the warmth in his expression hard to resist.
She smiled back, allowing herself to be pulled into a hug, breathing in the familiar smell of his leather jacket, happy to feel close and safe. She looked up at him.
“Seeing as you nearly gave me a heart attack I’ll let you pay,” she said. “But first, come up and see Mum. You can tell her you’re taking me out.”
“Will she be fed up being left on her own?” he asked, pushing open the shop door, causing the battered brass bell to announce their arrival.
“Trust me,” Xanthe smiled, “she’ll be delighted.”
2
As she had predicted, Flora was pleased to see Liam and more than happy to forego having her company for dinner if it meant she was going on a date with him. Xanthe was still a little too shaken to be bothered by her mother’s shameless matchmaking. Shaken and perplexed. It wasn’t just the scare about being followed, or her irritation at Liam being thoughtless enough to creep up on a woman walking home alone in the dark. It wasn’t even her ever-present state of alert regarding Fairfax. What continued to rattle her was that moment when she had turned, seen Liam, known it was him, known she was safe, and yet still felt filled with dread. It was that glimpse of a darkness about him that she could not easily dismiss. Was it perhaps a premonition? Was he in danger? The thought that Fairfax might use her loved ones to get at her was not new. After all, was that not precisely what he had done with Samuel?
&n
bsp; After a brief chat and a couple of phone calls, Liam booked them a table at the Italian restaurant down by the river. Half an hour later they were seated at a table in the window overlooking the early spring bulbs lit by fairy lights, the moon on the narrow water glinting in the background. Liam hungrily scanned the menu.
“I love Italian food. Proper portions. Bring on those carbs!”
“There’s a man immune to fashionable diets.” She was relieved to find that her own appetite was returning at the sound of all the tempting dishes on offer.
“I plow my own furrow,” he said.
“Happily, red wine is now thought to be essential for long life.”
“Is one bottle enough?” He signaled to the waiter and ordered some Chianti.
Xanthe wished she could just relax, forget about complicated, impossible things, forget even about Spinners, ignore the constant pull she felt from it, and simply enjoy the moment, putting all else from her mind. She became aware of Liam studying her. “What?” she asked, meeting his gaze.
“You look thoughtful.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“Depends what you’re thinking about.”
“Pasta.”
“And?”
“Garlic bread?”
He frowned at her. She made a point of closely examining the menu again but knew he was too perceptive to move on without questioning her further. He had noticed her demeanor and wouldn’t be so easily convinced that nothing was the matter.
“Hey, I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, “scaring you like that…”
“It’s fine, forget it.”
“I was an idiot.”
“Granted.”
“I aim to make it up to you with fabulous food, fine wine, and erudite conversation.”
“Good luck with that.”
The Garden of Promises and Lies Page 2