Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop

by Steffanie Holmes

  “I learned that particular trick from Algernon Blackwood,” she said, a note of triumph in her voice.

  Morrie clapped. “Brava!”

  The woman straightened up, dropping Heathcliff to the floor, where he landed with a THUD. She picked up the weapon and swung it through the air. “This is a fine blade. Under the circumstances, I think I shall keep it. If he had told me you would use my boudoir for bacchanalian rituals and try to cut my head off, I wouldn’t have delayed my trip to Paris to meet you.”

  Paris trip? I gasped as I made the connection. “You’re Victoria Bainbridge, the occult bookseller.”

  She swept the candle over the bed, no doubt taking in our state of undress. “I am a dealer, thank you very much. A dealer who shall now have to burn her bedsheets and hire my dear friend Mr. Crowley to cleanse this space,” she declared. “I’ve half a mind to send you a bill to replace the sheets. What on earth possessed you to carry on in such a manner, given the gravity of the situation?”

  “What situation? Who told you to come back for us?” Heathcliff demanded. “Who knew we would be here?”

  “Is your friend Aleister Crowley? Did he tell you we’d be here?” Morrie said. “I’ve always been interested in meeting him.”

  “Heavens no. Aleister would never get mixed up in this. He’d not wish to risk leaving his disciples in another century. I cannot tell you who forewarned me of your visit. The names of my clients are strictly confidential. You will not learn the time-traveler’s name from me. You are the girl Wilhelmina, correct?”

  “How do you know my name?” I scrambled around for my Snoopy top and pulled it on.

  Victoria went over to the desk. I heard her slide out a drawer and pop something open.

  “Heathcliff, you missed a hidden drawer,” Morrie said. “I wouldn’t have missed the hidden drawer.”

  “Go to hell, Morrie.”

  Victoria leaned across the bed and waved something in front of my face. A small, white envelope. “Take it. He left it for you.”

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “Your father, of course.”

  Chapter Three

  I snorted. “I think you have me mixed up with someone else. My father was a useless waste-of-space petty criminal in my century who walked out on my mum right after I was born. He left me nothing except bitterness and deteriorating retinas.”

  “You believe I have mistaken you for some other time-traveling girl named Wilhelmina with two rude men and a raven as companions?” Victoria smirked. “Take the letter. Perhaps there is more to your past then you have been led to believe.”

  The paper slid between my fingers. Am I really holding something from my father? This didn’t make any sense. We’d entered this room looking for answers, but I never anticipated this.

  “Now.” Victoria smoothed down the front of her corset. “Since I see you’ve ransacked my desk and upended my bath, I can assure you there are no further clues to be found in my boudoir. If you could vacate my home at the earliest opportunity, I’d be most grateful. My client explained to me something called the ontological paradox. I’d hate for you to accidentally squash a spider and start the great spider/human war of your time.”

  “Just in case, I’d like my sword back.” Heathcliff held out his hand, but Victoria dangled the blade out of his reach.

  “How do we get back to our own time?” Morrie asked. “We can’t get the door open.”

  “Wait until morning.” Victoria sighed and slunk into the darkness. “When he visited me, he always had to wait until morning. At one time I believed he meant it merely as an excuse to stay with me, but he assured me it was part of the room’s magic. I guess I shall have to sleep in my chair.”

  “Meeeoorrww!” Grimalkin cried.

  Victoria leaped to her feet. “I see my chair is already occupied.”

  I tried to slide out of bed, but Morrie’s body weighed me down. “We shouldn’t steal your bed. The guys and I will take the chairs—”

  “Meeerrw!” Grimalkin sounded indignant.

  “I insist,” Victoria said. “After what you’ve been doing between those sheets, I do not wish to touch it. You may as well enjoy it for the rest of the night. However, your feline friend will have to join you.”

  Grimalkin meowed as Victoria deposited her on my feet. The candlelight bobbed across the room. A sofa creaked as she threw back the covers and settled herself in. A moment later, the light flickered out.

  “You heard the lady.” Morrie’s hand snaked around my chest again.

  I threw him off. “You can’t seriously be thinking about that now?”

  “Yes, yes I can.”

  “Morrie, get off me. Aside from the fact that I’m holding a letter from my father and a Victorian book dealer is sleeping on the sofa three feet from the bed, so I have other shit on my mind, I’m angry with you.”

  “Have I done something to offend?”

  I snorted. “I’m not talking about this now. But when we get back, I’ll write you a list.”

  “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 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, 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 as 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.