by Nancy Warren
I felt a little self-conscious at first, when Dr. Patek settled me beside her in a chair. He stood at the end of the bed observing. I took her hand. We weren't the best of friends, but I went with my instincts. Her hands seemed cool and almost impersonal because, of course, she didn't return my grasp. I said, "Gemma, it's Lucy. I can't wait until you're feeling better and open your eyes. A funny thing happened at the holiday market, today." And then I recounted an incident where two men had both wanted the same sweater for their grandsons and, since there was only one, had decided to arm wrestle for the right to buy it. The match had been undertaken in a light-hearted manner and drew a small crowd.
The winner got his sweater and I’d taken the business card of the other man and promised to try and get him an identical one. I was fairly certain one of the vampires could whip him up one in a couple of days, though obviously I didn’t share that with Gemma or the doctor watching us.
At the end of my story I glanced up at Dr. Patek and he nodded, gave me a thumbs up gesture and then quietly left the room. I just kept talking. I remembered the night in the pub and the way we had shared confidences as women do. I reminded her of how much fun we’d had that night and told her I was looking forward to lots more.
Then, when I was certain no one was looking, I slipped Meri’s bracelet onto Gemma’s wrist. “This will keep you safe,” I whispered. “Blessed be.”
Chapter 10
It was a Saturday night and we’d all been working so hard, I decided we needed a break. I said to Meri, “Would you like to see a movie?”
“Movie. This is like the television?”
“Yes. Only bigger. And we’ll go to the cinema, which is something you just have to do.”
“All right, Lucy. How must I prepare?”
“Wear something comfortable. There’s a funky art house cinema doing a showing of the first Star Wars movie. It’s old, now, but I think you’ll enjoy it.” I had another brilliant idea. “Would you mind if I invite Rafe?”
“You must invite whomever you desire. It is your party.”
“I wish everyone had your manners.” I called Rafe and invited him along. After a pause, he said, “I can see why you want to expose Meri to this new experience, but why do you want me to come?”
“Because you are nearly as out of touch as she is. Admit it. You’ve never seen Star Wars.”
“For good reason,” said the cultural snob.
“Get over yourself. Everyone should see Star Wars. I’ll even buy the tickets.”
He agreed and the three of us headed to Walton Street to see a movie that was ancient to me, and would be blindingly modern to them.
We settled into the theater with popcorn and cold drinks and I had as much fun slyly watching Meri and Rafe as I did watching a movie I’d already seen a few times. When it was over, we walked to the café across the street for coffee and cake.
“Well? What did you think?” I was looking at Rafe but Meri spoke up.
“I was reminded of my homeland. The background looked so familiar.” She sounded sad and homesick.
“That’s right. It was filmed in Tunisia, I think. That’s near Egypt, isn’t it?”
Rafe said, “Egypt and Tunisia are separated by Libya, but not too far apart. The terrain is similar.”
Honestly, sometimes being out with him was like dating Google.
“Meri, are you homesick?”
“Thank you, my health is very good.”
“No. Homesick is when you wish you were back to where you grew up.”
She looked so sad. “Everyone I knew is gone now.”
“But the scenery is the same. The pyramids are still there.” We’d all believed she’d be happier here with me and our local witches, but maybe that wasn’t true. She sipped her espresso as though it took her whole attention. “Meri, would you like to go back to Egypt? You could stay with my parents. Pete, the Australian archaeology student works with them.”
“I remember.”
“You only have to say the word.”
She smiled. “I would like that very much.”
I had a sinking feeling I was going to lose another assistant, but I couldn’t think about that now. “I’ll talk to my parents and see what we can arrange. You’ll get to fly on a plane. That will be another first for you.”
“Thank you, Lucy.”
Rafe still hadn’t said a word about the movie. I turned to him. “You didn’t seem at all bored during Star Wars.” In fact, he’d laughed once or twice, a low rumble, and I’d definitely felt him jerk beside me in a few of the exciting scenes.
“It was quite entertaining,” he admitted.
I forked up some more of my Victoria sponge cake. “They’re doing The Empire Strikes back next week. Want to see it with me?”
“If you like,” he said.
I hid my smile by stuffing my face with cake. He was hooked. My plan to teach him the best of modern American culture was working.
Sunday, after the market closed, Alfred and I started to close up, but I could see he was tired. "Go ahead. You've been on your feet for hours. I’ll finish up."
He shook his head. "Rafe's orders. Until this maniac is caught, you're not to walk to the bank or home alone."
Of course, I was irritated by the high-handed way Rafe had gone behind my back and ordered bodyguards. I was also grateful to him, but it was annoying not to be asked—or at least informed that I had a protection detail.
“Fine.” We finished locking up Timeless Treasures. I tucked the envelope of cash deep down in my bag and Alfred and I started off toward the bank.
We’d barely gone out of the pedestrian zone and onto George Street when a motorcycle zoomed up beside us. It was black. I didn’t know anything about motorcycles so had no idea what kind it was, but there was a decal on it that caught my eye. It was about six inches long and featured a cartoonish image of a green rocket in flight. The words Road Rocket had been amended with a Sharpie to Babe Magnet.
The rider had on a helmet but when he lifted the visor I recognized the thin face and intense eyes of the guy who’d been asking questions about Gemma. "Wait. I want to talk to you."
I couldn't believe he was accosting me and I was very glad I had Alfred with me. He might not look like the toughest guy in a dark alley, but Alfred had hidden depths.
At first, I ignored the call and kept walking, but he pulled forward and when the sidewalk dipped he pulled in front of us. "Hey. Hold up a mo."
I had to curl my hands into fists so he wouldn't see the electricity zapping out of my fingertips. I felt I could zap him into a piece of charcoal just by shaking his hand.
He said, "Bubbles, the soap shop, it never opened all day. You must know what's happened to that girl who ran it."
"I already told you, I have no information."
I tried to walk around the bike, but he leaned out and grabbed my arm. His grip was strong. "I'm worried, all right? I know her. Somebody must know what's happened to her."
Alfred said, with steely menace, "Unhand that lady."
I was abruptly let go off. "No offense." He held up his hands as though he were being arrested. “I'm worried about a friend, that's all."
I’d had about enough of this stalker. My palms were stinging as I kept giving myself electric shocks. "Is your name Darren?"
His eyes opened wide. And then they narrowed. "What if it is?"
"Because, if it is, I can tell you that Gemma doesn't want anything more to do with you. You should leave her alone."
I wanted to add that if he’d hurt her he would be very, very sorry. He must've heard the venom in my voice. “I dunno what you’re going on about. I didn't do nothing."
I really must get back to my magic. I wanted to turn Darren into a toad. I could picture his big, intense eyes set in a bulbous toad's body. I was shocked at my own viciousness. I'd never thought of myself as a vengeful person, but my new friend was in a coma and whoever had put here there was going to pay. Darren was the most likely attacker, but I wasn�
�t positive he’d done it and I wanted to be certain before practicing any transformation spells on him. I noticed, now, that he looked worried.
"Just tell me she's okay, will you? Then I'll go away. I promise."
I was tempted to tell him she was in a coma and might not survive. I wanted to see him blanch. But what if he thought she was already dead? Maybe finding out she wasn’t would send him to the hospital to finish the job. I couldn’t put her in worse danger. So, I shook my head. I wouldn't lie, but I wouldn’t give him any information, either. I turned and began to walk away.
“I’ll ask her dad. Maybe he’ll give me the time of day.”
When I still didn’t answer, he yelled something very rude at my back. I felt my shoulders stiffen but I didn't turn. I took Alfred's arm so that he couldn't act on his instincts, which I could feel bristling beside me. I wondered if Darren had any idea how close he’d come either to being turned into a toad or dinner for a hungry vampire.
“Thank you for not eating him,” I said to Alfred as we walked on.
He sniffed. “O positive. Doesn’t agree with me.”
Rafe called that evening, while I was showing Meri how to shop for flights using the Internet. I’d phoned my folks and we’d agreed that a trip in the spring would work for everyone.
He said, “I've got some interesting information about that project we were discussing." He had to be referring to the manuscript we'd borrowed from Gemma's room.
"Oh, yes?"
"I'd like to see you tonight. If I send a car for you, can you be ready in half an hour?"
I wasn’t a package that needed to be picked up and delivered. "I can drive to your place. It's not a problem."
There was a tiny pause and I thought he might argue with me then, he said, "Fine. I'll see you when you get here."
I wondered why I bothered being quite so independent when I got into Gran's tiny car. It was freezing and I wasn’t thrilled to be driving country roads at night. On the wrong side of the road.
As I waited for the windshield to defrost, I made sure I had the route pulled up on my map function in my smartphone. Once I had my courage up, the windshield clear and the interior a couple of degrees above frigid, I eased the car out of the tiny parking space and headed down the lane. The hardest part of the drive was navigating out of Oxford itself.
Oxford was not planned with heavy traffic in mind, and it showed. However, I navigated out of town without incident and once on the A44 I began to relax. No, not relax, I began to grow excited. Rafe wouldn't drag me all the way out there if he hadn't discovered something.
I arrived in a high state of anticipation. I parked the car in front of the imposing entrance to the manor house. I’d barely got the engine off and the car door opened before Rafe's butler-cum-manservant was standing with the great door thrown open, spilling out light.
"Good evening, Lucy," he said. "I’d have been happy to come and get you. It’s tricky driving these roads at night."
He was so easy, so normal, and so human that I smiled. "I like to be independent, but sometimes I wonder why. I would've loved to have you pick me up."
He chuckled. "Next time."
I walked past him and he closed the door behind me. He waited for me to take off my coat and hand it to him. "You look frightfully cold. What can I bring you? Some hot tea? Coffee? Hot chocolate? Soup? Something to eat?"
“Thanks, William. A cup of tea would be lovely." That's how British I’d become.
"Rafe’s in his office. I'll take you there so you don't get lost. And then I'll get the tea on."
We went down a long corridor and through a doorway to what I suspected might have been another wing or maybe even a stable block. I got a bit disoriented. William came to a thick, oak door and knocked. A brief word from Rafe and he opened the door and held it for me.
Chapter 11
Rafe’s office was the most modern part of the house apart from the kitchen. He worked at a large desk with leading-edge computers on it. On the opposite wall was a long counter that looked like a science lab with microscopes and powerful lights, a fancy -looking camera. There were long, wooden cupboards that I assumed housed all the manuscripts and books he worked on because there was no clutter anywhere, though I spied the manila folder containing Gemma’s pages on Rafe’s desk.
He was sitting in front of a computer and he looked up. "Lucy. You found us all right?"
“Of course," I said, walking into the room. I left out the bit where the digital map and the computer voice giving me directions had saved my butt.
"I'll bring the tea," William said. "Rafe? Anything for you?"
Rafe shook his head. "Nothing, thanks." Then William left, closing the door behind him. Rafe said, "Come and look at this."
He pulled a chair over, close to him, and when I sat in it, we were side-by-side. So close our arms brushed. It was strange to sit so close to someone and not feel their body warmth. But he smelled as always, clean and of peppermint.
He looked to me. And then at the screen. "What do you see?"
It was a large screen and on it were pictures of two manuscript pages. I recognized one of them as coming from the manuscript we had taken from Gemma's hotel room. The other looked very similar, but the scribbled notes were in a different hand. I said as much.
He nodded. "Very good. In fact, the second page is from the earliest known manuscript of the Chronicles of Pangnirtung."
I looked at him, puzzled. "I thought you said that manuscript was on loan to the Bodleian and was at the Weston Library as part of the exhibition?"
"I did say that. And it is on display, minus a few pages which I have borrowed for scientific purposes."
I pressed my lips together against a grin. "I'm assuming it's an unofficial borrow?"
"Of course."
I didn't ask how he got the pages. Rafe had his ways.
He wouldn't have asked me to drive out here in the dark if he didn't have something interesting to tell me. I waited. He continued to stare at the screen and then said, "You have to understand that I have studied thousands of manuscripts. Often, it's a university or library wanting me to confirm that the gift they’re being offered is, in fact, a genuine article. Sometimes a family member finds a manuscript and wonders if it might be of monetary, historical, or literary significance."
I nodded. I knew what he did for a living. Why was he telling me all this?
"One develops an instinct.”
He turned and our gazes met. "It's hard to describe, but there are certain indicators in a genuine early draft of a manuscript and an imitator. Does that make sense?"
I nodded.
"I have studied the paper, the typewriter ink and the handwritten notations on each of these manuscripts."
I tried to control my excitement. "Can you tell which one was written first?" I really wanted Gemma’s dad to be the author of the Chronicles of Pangnirtung. What a wonderful Christmas miracle that would be for her and her family. But, to my dismay, Rafe shook his head. “If there was a hundred years between them, maybe even ten, I could tell you which one was first. These were both written at approximately the same time. However, what's interesting, is the similarity of the paper. It's cheap copy paper, exactly what someone would've used forty years ago to draft a novel, or write the early draft of their university thesis."
"Forty years ago. So there were no computers then?"
He shook his head. "Oh, how young you are. There were, in fact, computers then, but not the personal computer. In the late 1970s, when this was created, most writers and students were still using typewriters."
“So, all we really know then is that one of them wrote the manuscript and the other copied it about the same time. Which we already knew."
He held up a finger. "Don't be so impatient." He pointed to the screen. "Take a moment, read the notations, and give me your initial impressions."
Even though he'd blown up the pages, it still wasn't so easy to read pencil and pen scratches on paper that w
as more than forty years old. Still, I did my best. When I’d finished reading as much as I could, he scrolled forward and there were two more pages for me to read. After the third page I did begin to see something interesting.
"The pages that appear on the left are suggestions to change a word, or reframe a sentence. They are specifically related to the language."
Rafe nodded, encouraging. I felt like a prize student he was proud of. "And the other?"
I looked at page on the right. "Those notes are reminders to check a source or, like here," and I pointed to where three different terms had been scribbled in the margin. “He's trying to decide what to call a particular creature, or dwelling."
"Very good. And what does that say to you?"
"Rafe, I run a knitting shop, I don’t spend my life poking around ancient manuscripts. I don't know what it means."
"Let me ask you this. If I gave you the samples and said to you, which one is written by the author and which is the copy returned by the publisher’s in-house editor, which would you guess?"
I nodded, slowly, understanding. “The one on the left seems more like editorial notes. The one on the right is more creative, I suppose."
"Excellent."
"So? Which manuscript is which? It makes sense that if they were such good friends the author might have given his buddy his manuscript to edit." I said, slowly, "That would be the one on the left."
"And the one on the right would probably belong to the true author since he was still making creative decisions."
“I agree.”
"So? Which writer does the manuscript on the left belong to?" I felt butterflies of excitement dancing in my belly. I wasn't a bit surprised when he said, "The manuscript on the left is Sanderson’s."
I let out a breath that almost sounded like a whistle. "So, if we're right, then Martin Hodgins is the real author the Chronicles of Pangnirtung."
"Yes. But it's a long way from suspecting he's the author to being able to prove it."
I got up and began to pace. William came in, then, carrying a silver tray. On it was a fine china teapot, one china cup and saucer, sugar in a Georgian silver bowl, and milk in the matching jug. On another delicate china plate was a selection of shortbread biscuits. I doubted the family at Buckingham Palace got served tea as beautifully presented. There was only the one cup on the tray and, in addition, a crystal tumbler of iced water with a slice of lemon floating on top, like a smile.