“Did you miss me?” she asked it. “I know, I haven’t been for a while. Things have been … busy.” She smiled to herself at the understatement of this. So much had happened since the last time she had stood beside the ancient sentinel. Since the chocolate pot had sung to her. She thought of how different her journeys back to the past had become; how they had changed. Her traveling back no longer felt overwhelming, sometimes involuntary, often as if she were a mere passenger. She had come to see that now, as a Spinner, she did have a measure of control. With the book, and with the help of Harley and Mistress Flyte, she had started to learn how to move through the decades and centuries when she wanted. True, there was still a great deal to learn and much she didn’t understand, but she was not the same person. She felt that she had changed on a deep, fundamental level. Not only because she had become more adept at spinning time, but because she had come to accept why she was called upon to do it. She had come to understand what was expected of her. And she had learned that her personal feelings, her wishes and desires, would always take second place to the duty that her gift placed upon her. While this might once have made her sad, when her feelings for Samuel were so heady and unguarded, now she felt strangely freed by the notion. Strengthened by it. Her place was in her own time. What she did when the found things sang to her she did as a traveler, as a visitor, as a Spinner. Her own present day was where she would always belong. And now there was Liam. Liam.
Xanthe turned her collar up against the cold air and walked with determined strides along the length of the ridgeway, letting the exertion steady her thoughts, allowing the December air to invigorate and restore her. At last, after a brisk half hour, she circled back round to the noble horse. She paused and blew him a kiss. “I’ll come again soon,” she promised before making her way back to the cab.
Marlborough was still quiet when she drove back up the high street. She waved at Harley, who was out to fetch the Sunday paper. As she turned down Parchment Street she could hear the church bells ringing. She parked up at the end of the lane, making a mental note to buy more antifreeze for her precious vehicle. She rubbed her hands together as she walked across the cobbles, wondering if her mother would feel like sharing a full English breakfast with her.
She was about to go unlock the shop door when something made her stop. She paused, listening, waiting, searching for a reason for her sudden unease. She heard voices. Not real voices from real people standing close—the street was devoid of shoppers—but distant, ethereal, lost voices; the ones she heard when she was spinning time. But she was doing nothing remotely connected with journeying through the centuries. She was at home, in daylight, away from the blind house, without any treasure singing to her. Why, then, could she suddenly hear the cries and pleas of so many desperate people? She needed to turn around, to scan the area, to look for an explanation, but she found she was frightened of doing so. Her breathing and heartbeat accelerated, panic stirring within her. She must turn. She must look. She must see! It took all her willpower to step back from the door of the shop and turn. She had the sensation that icy fingers were stroking the nape of her neck. The cobbled space was clearly empty, even though she felt as if a hundred souls were crowding it, pressing forward, clamoring and pleading, demanding her attention. And then she saw it. Standing at the entrance to the narrow alleyway, a figure. He was silhouetted against the light from the broad high street behind him so that Xanthe could not clearly see his face. He wore a wide-brimmed hat, and his clothes were an unconventional shape. The man began to move toward her, and as he did so, he emerged from the shadows and into the growing light of the morning. Even before she could see him properly, something in Xanthe told her that danger was close, that a darkness was approaching. Even so, she had to steady herself against the shock of discovering that the man who now stood before her was none other than Benedict Fairfax.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’d like to thank the many owners of antiques shops who have tolerated my endless questions about their stock. Likewise, the curators of historic houses in Wiltshire who have had to put up with me and have been so very helpful.
Thanks, of course, to my editorial team, for their patience and for sharing my vision for this story. I am truly fortunate to have them.
I am grateful, as always, to the whole family of hardworking people at St. Martin’s Press who each do their crucial bit to bring my books into being. The thrill of seeing a new title in print, and to hold it in my hands, never gets old.
And thanks this time to my readers for their enthusiastic response to the series, which gave me the confidence and courage to continue the story.
ALSO BY PAULA BRACKSTON
The Little Shop of Found Things
The Return of the Witch
The Silver Witch
The Midnight Witch
The Winter Witch
Lamp Black, Wolf Grey
The Witch’s Daughter
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PAULA BRACKSTON is the New York Times bestselling author of The Witch’s Daughter, The Winter Witch, The Midnight Witch, The Silver Witch, The Return of the Witch, and The Little Shop of Found Things. She has a master’s degree in creative writing from Lancaster University in the UK. She lives in the Welsh border town of Hereford with her family. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgments
Also by Paula Brackston
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
First published in the United States by St. Martin’s Press, an imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group
SECRETS OF THE CHOCOLATE HOUSE. Copyright © 2019 by Paula Brackston. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Publishing Group, 120 Broadway, New York, NY 10271.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Michael Storrings
Cover photographs: teacup © rouille-et-patine / Shutterstock.com; hot chocolate © PhotoCuisine RM / Alamy Stock Photo; cinnamon © NewFabrika / Shutterstock.com; tearoom © Paul Konighaus / Alamy Stock Photo
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Brackston, Paula, author.
Title: Secrets of the chocolate house / Paula Brackston.
Description: First Edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2019. | Series: Found things; 2
Identifiers: LCCN 2019024261 | ISBN 9781250072443 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781466884113 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories. | Occult fiction.
Classification: LCC PR6102.R325 S43 2019 | DDC 823/.92—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019024261
eISBN 9781466884113
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the M
acmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: October 2019
Secrets of the Chocolate House Page 35