Flora nodded at this, easily prepared to accept that such a strange gift as her daughter’s would prompt a person to do equally strange things.
“I still think it won’t do the copper any good, love,” she said. “Better to just keep it in your room and draw the curtains, don’t you think? I’ve put it in the workshop for now. Gave it a bit of a clean for you.”
“Thanks, Mum.” Xanthe couldn’t help thinking that the pot being moved out of the blind house might somehow have affected the link between the present and the past for her. Had that had something to do with her accidentally traveling back? Perhaps it was not only that she had handled the locket and that she had been upset. There was so much to think about, so much she still did not completely understand.
“Were you looking for it?” Flora was asking, still baffled by finding her daughter emerging from the shed.
“What? Oh, yes. I … missed it,” she said.
Flora shook her head. “More than you missed me, clearly. Not one phone call to your old mum.”
“I’m sorry, it was tricky, and I was…”
“… busy. You don’t have to tell me. I’ve been to more antiques fairs than you’ve had hot dinners, don’t forget. I know how hectic they can be and how caught up in everything you can get. How did you get on with finding stock? I can’t wait to see what treasures you’ve brought home.”
Xanthe’s head began to ache with the effort of such a complicated game of charades when all the time she was desperately worried about Samuel. She tried a smile. “Actually, you’ll have to wait a bit longer.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s all part of the surprise.”
“Like what you’ve just put in the shed?” Flora’s expression was becoming increasingly bewildered. “And why you’re wearing those peculiar clothes?”
Xanthe instinctively put her hand up to her head. The mop cap she had been given had been dislodged somewhere in her transition and had not made the journey, but of course she was still wearing Samuel’s cloak. She pulled it around her more tightly. “That’s right,” she said, already trying to construct in her mind a convincing explanation for such a buildup. “All will be revealed.”
“You’re being very mysterious. I hope you haven’t gone mad with the budget.”
“Of course not. I just, found some lovely things. And some of them I’ve got to go and collect, and…” She ground to a halt, completely lost for anything to add.
Flora narrowed her eyes. “I know what you’ve been up to.”
“You do?”
“I know that look. You can’t keep secrets from me, Xanthe, you never could. You’ve got Christmas written all over you.”
“Christmas?”
“And here I was thinking you weren’t going to be too busy to do much about it this year. But you know me too well. And this one will be special, like you said. Just you and me. Our first Christmas in Marlborough.”
“Exactly what I’ve been thinking.”
“You don’t want to share your plans with me? OK, have it your own way.” Flora smiled, holding up a hand. “I won’t press you. Just promise me you haven’t gone mad with my present. We can’t afford big gifts this year.”
Relief swamped Xanthe and she gave a little laugh. “I know, but you deserve something special, Mum.”
“If you insist, I won’t argue. Now come on, it’s way past lunchtime. I want to tell you about my adventures in campanology.”
“Sorry? Oh, you mean the bell-ringing.”
“Yes, the bell-ringing. Honestly, Xanthe, love, sometimes I don’t know where your head is. I’ve been for my first session. Well, not that I actually did much. But I watched and got the idea of what will be expected of me. Graham and Sheila showed me the ropes, so to speak.” She giggled at her own joke.
“That’s great, Mum. How did you get on with…?”
“My hands? Completely fine, thank you. I actually think it might help, you know, strengthen them. They’re better than some bits of me; might as well use ’em. Right, lunch. I know you think I never eat when you’re not here but actually I’ve been cooking,” she said, making her way toward the house.
Xanthe followed, realizing she had no choice but to eat with her mother. “Cooking? Really?”
“Yes. Must be the cold weather. I fancied a mutton stew.”
“Good grief.”
“Don’t panic, I couldn’t be bothered to go shopping and we were fresh out of mutton. So I used crumbled-up beef burgers instead. It’s pretty good if I say so myself.… Ouch!” Flora stumbled, leaning heavily on one of her crutches.
“Mum? Are you OK?”
“It’s nothing. My knee’s been playing up a bit, that’s all.”
“Another flare-up? Do you want me to make an appointment for you to see the physio?”
“I’m fine, don’t fuss. I just need a bit of grub and a sit-down,” she insisted, striding off unevenly.
For all her protestations, Xanthe was not convinced. She suspected her mother was suffering more than she was letting on. The way she was moving, it was obvious she was in pain. She shouldn’t be left to cope on her own. Xanthe couldn’t help glancing back over her shoulder, taking one more look at the blind house, wondering what was happening to Samuel. Wondering what she would find when she went back. If she went back. Because now she had to find a reason for another absence and there were only so many stories she could come up with before she tripped over her own lies. And if Flora’s health was deteriorating there was no way she could leave her, however much she wanted to.
* * *
Flora was determined to fix lunch, so Xanthe left her in the kitchen and hurried to her own room to change. As she folded the velvet cloak, running her hands over the dense, soft fabric, she could feel tiny particles crumbling. How long would it last? she wondered, setting it down on her bed next to Rose’s white blouse. How long before both garments vanished completely? She had no time to think about it further. She pulled on jeans, a T-shirt, and a chunky jumper, for once favoring practicality over her preferred vintage clothing, and perhaps needing for once to root herself firmly in her own time. Downstairs she found her mother had succeeded in laying the table but was happy to leave Xanthe to sort out a meal. Flora was reluctant to talk about her flare-up, dismissing it, as was her habit. Xanthe did at least get her to agree that an appointment with the physiotherapist and the doctor should be made for the following day. As soon as they had eaten the strangely palatable meal, Flora headed for bed, reassuring Xanthe that using heat pads for her neck and shoulders would quickly ease her aches, determined to prove they would be wasting the doctor’s time. It was a temporary setback, flare-ups came and went, and this one, too, would pass.
Xanthe went down to the shop and turned the sign to open, signaling the end of the lunchtime closing. A glance at the sales book on the desk showed her that Flora had not only found time to socialize with her new friends and her new hobby but had also been busy in the shop serving customers. While it was heartening to see that business was picking up, Xanthe felt even more guilty about not having actually been to the Bristol antiques fair. She was going to have to find some stock from somewhere, not only to back up her flimsy story, but to provide them with more treasures to sell. There were so many things she needed to do and so many places she needed to be. What might be happening to Samuel? She could not even be sure of how much time had passed since she left. It was so frustrating to be stuck, unable to return to him. She didn’t dare go into the workshop to fetch the chocolate pot. She knew if she did she would be pulled even more strongly in the direction of the past. Right now her mother needed her. That was that.
Or was it?
There was something else Xanthe had not been allowing herself to think about until she had seen to her mother. Something that kept hope burning in her heart. Hope for Samuel. Now, at last, she could find out if this was false hope, an illusion based on wishful thinking and the obscure words of an old woman from centuries ago, or a real
chance that she could truly learn to control the way she traveled through time. So that she could do it safely, certain about where she would end up and knowing that she could come home whenever she wanted to. Without mistakes. Without risk. Now she could find out if it really was possible for her to become a Spinner.
Nervously, she walked over to the glass-fronted bookcase that stood against the far wall of the shop, fighting off a memory of the one she had smashed into in Fairfax’s observatory. She felt a wave of relief at seeing the book still there, nestled safely between a copy of A Tale of Two Cities and a collection of nineteenth-century poetry. She opened the case and took out the leather-bound book. It felt cool in her hands. It was nothing exciting to look at; just a simple, slim volume, its green leather cover worn in patches, the single word embossed in gold across its front slightly faded. She traced the scrolling lettering with a finger and whispered the title aloud.
“Spinners.”
She opened it. To anyone else it might look like a fantasy novel, a work of fiction recounting the story of a group of people with a strange ability to spin time. To anyone else. Not to Xanthe. She knew what it was. It was a record of time travel, a book telling of the journeys made by people who were able to travel back and fore through the decades and centuries, beyond those of their own lifetimes. People like her. The contents were divided not, as she had half expected, into chapters regarding the technical aspects of time travel, but more like a collection of short stories. Each one looked like a fascinating tale, but it was far from being the instruction manual she had hoped for. She turned the pages quickly, searching for anything that might give a clearer indication of the how and the what of spinning time. There were illustrations—some simple line drawings, others more elaborate and quite beautifully worked—and there were maps, charts, and diagrams, but it was impossible at first glance to tell what might be relevant or useful.
“Stories are all very well,” she said as if the Spinners responsible for writing them were there to hear her, “but I need guidance, clues, tips, warnings, damn it, something to tell me what I need to know. I don’t have time to unravel stories!”
The jangling of the doorbell made her jump and snap the book shut. She knew the middle-aged couple now browsing in the shop could not possibly realize the rare significance of what she held in her hands, but still she wanted to keep it safe, keep it secret. At last she might find answers to some of her questions. She felt hope lift her. If there was one thing that might help her successfully balance the two lives, the two worlds she now inhabited, it was some level of mastery over her gift. It just might be that this dusty, tattered old book—something that the previous owner, Mr. Morris, could well have bought in a job lot and forgotten about—might at last give her control over her ability. Give her the skills she needed to travel when and where she was needed.
But it seemed that the running of the shop that day would not easily allow her to focus on what secrets might lie in wait for her in the book. A steady stream of customers required her attention, putting off further the moment she had been waiting for so eagerly.
Silly problems that she had brought upon herself now demanded her attention too. Like the fact that her taxi was still parked up in the car park of the auction house in Devizes. For a fleeting moment she entertained the idea of asking Liam to drive her out to collect it, but quickly decided she couldn’t do that. She had asked too many favors of him already. It wasn’t fair, and it was inclined to give him the wrong idea about how she saw him. He was a friend, and she valued his friendship, but she knew he wanted something more. At that moment she felt almost overwhelmed by the complexity of her situation. How much easier it would be to lean on Liam. To let him woo her. To allow herself to lower her guard and become closer to him. She glimpsed the comfort in that, the possible intimacy, the support, and the hope for the future such a closeness could give her.
She glanced at the two clocks on the shelf. One had stopped, Flora having forgotten to wind it, but the other was whirring and about to chime two o’clock. Xanthe calculated that her mother’s pain medication, combined with her exhausted state, would most likely keep her asleep for a couple of hours. As soon as there was a break in the browsers and shoppers stepping over the threshold, she hurried upstairs, grabbed her wallet, went outside, and fetched her hidden car keys and phone from the shrubbery, ignoring the whispers from the blind house, hurried through the shop again, turning the sign to closed as she went and locking the door behind her. She took a mini-cab from the rank on the high street and was soon reunited with her own car. She made a detour into Devizes and all but ran in and out of two antique shops, buying a handful of random items. She was thankful that she and her mother were still relatively unknown in the area, even by other people in the trade. Eyebrows would most definitely have been raised regarding her business sense if anyone had recognized her and realized that she was purchasing china, jewelry, and glass at retail prices to sell in her own shop. By the time she returned to Marlborough her stress levels were high, her temper short, and her self-esteem at a very low point. She unloaded the two boxes of new stock, leaving them in the workshop so that Flora could look at them later, and parked the car. As soon as she returned to the shop she went upstairs. Flora had run herself a deep bubble bath and called through the door that she was already feeling much better. The genuine cheer in her voice lifted Xanthe’s spirits. She made herself a cup of tea, sighing at the lack of milk or sugar in the house, seeing it as another sign of her own inability to keep everything together, and then felt almost ridiculously pleased at finding a packet of shortbread biscuits. Once back in the shop, she turned the sign to open again and sat in the captain’s chair behind the desk, taking Spinners out of the drawer and setting the book down in front of her. As she took a quick sip of her Earl Grey she spotted the local newspaper on top of the stack of paper bags and tissue paper. It had been left folded open to show an advertisement for a pop-up antiques sale in a village hall in Ditton, a few miles west of Laybrook. The ad had been circled in green ink, and Xanthe suspected her mother had planned for them to go there together. It was unlikely she would be quite well enough, but Xanthe could still go on her own. There was the chance of some interesting finds for the shop, and at least she could pretend some of them had come from Bristol. Guilt curdled the tea in her stomach. More deceit. She leaned back in the worn walnut chair, the old leather seat creaking in protest, evidently in need of a bit of restoration work. If Flora had been well she would have noticed that and dealt with it straightaway. Xanthe rubbed her own aching neck, feeling the by now familiar jet lag that time travel left her with. She took a breath and picked up the book.
“Right,” she said to herself, as much as to all the unknown Spinners who had gone before her who had set down their wisdom between those leather covers. “Let’s see if this time I can find more answers than questions.”
The remainder of the afternoon consisted of Xanthe trying to be patient with and attentive to customers, while all the time longing to read more of Spinners. The book was a treasure trove of stories about such wonderful time travelers that she could not believe they were all based on fact. Perhaps there were only one or two who had actually been able to move through time, and the others were just put there to camouflage the real ones. Some of the pages were beautifully illuminated with red and blue lettering picked out in gold. Others appeared almost to be written by hand, in flowing copperplate with thick ink and a worn nib. Could it have been the author’s intention to record the exploits of the real Spinners for any who might come later but to hide them among fictional ones? Xanthe googled the name of the author, given only as M. Derive and not mentioned until several pages into the book, but got no results. There was nothing else written by him, or her, and no record of Spinners anywhere on the internet. There wasn’t a publisher’s name printed inside the book either. It was impossible to pick out what was, supposedly, fact from what was fiction. Most of the Spinners, like Fairfax, seemed to require one part
icular object to travel with. Only two she could find used lots of different things in the way that she did. One of those jumped so far into the future the story read like science fiction. Could that one really be accurate?
Something that struck her as she was reading was that this was no random collection of people. It felt more like a group or society, though it wasn’t clear how anyone was chosen to be included in it. What were the rules? And if people were selected somehow, why would somebody as ruthless and unscrupulous as Fairfax be included? Come to think of it, why would she have been included? What had she ever done to show that she was a suitable person to take on the sort of responsibility she was beginning to understand was a part of the gift? If it could be called a gift.
Determined to make sense of it, she selected a page at random and read quietly aloud, as if hearing her own voice enunciate the words, clearly, sensibly, might give her an easier insight into their meaning.
Rowan hugged the swaddled babe closer to her, tugging the woolen blanket that all but hid him a little tighter. She glanced up and down the path once more before stepping out from the cover of the trees. Soon it would be dark, and the night would shield her. For now, she had only her wits, her sharp sense, and her youthful strength to protect them both. The ground was tinder dry from the summer drought so that twigs and empty acorn husks crunched beneath her feet as she ran. The noise sounded dangerously loud to Rowan. She had no way of knowing where her persecutors might be hiding; where they might lie in wait, ready to spring upon her and wrench her precious child from her arms. She could not let that happen. She would not. She bent lower over the sleeping bundle, breathing in the sweet, newborn scent of him as she ran, drawing strength from that visceral connection twixt mother and babe, knowing that there was nothing she would not do for him. Despite the courage this gave her, her soul still quaked at what she was about to do. If there were any other way she would gladly have taken it, but all options had been tried and found wanting. This, she had entirely convinced herself, was their only hope.
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 19