“What?” Heathcliff glowered. “No, you’re not.”
“I’ve a fourth ticket in my pocket that says otherwise.”
“Not doing it. I’d have to close the shop over the long weekend, and as you’ve helpfully pointed out, with all these Jane Austen freaks in town, business is booming. All that is beside the fact that there’s not a bribe on earth large enough to make me wear a cravat or listen to doddery old professors talk about stockings. Give the ticket to Quoth. He’s a bird. They love fanning their plumage and hopping around for ludicrous mating rituals.”
I glanced at Quoth, and he nodded. “Quoth and I already discussed it. He doesn’t feel comfortable with all the people that are going to be there. He’ll stay here and tend the shop, and Jo’s promised to come in and help as well. Quoth will visit us in our room at the Hall in the evening and he might join me for some of the lectures if one of you will lend out your lanyard. But I need a date for the ball and you’re it.”
“Is there any chance of me getting out of this?”
“Not a one.”
Heathcliff sighed, folding his arms. “Fine. But I’m not wearing a silly costume.”
I crossed my fingers behind my back as I recalled the ‘costumes mandatory, and will be supplied to any patron arriving without’ written on the back of the ticket. “Oh no, I’m sure that will be fine. Now, if we can move on to something more important—”
My phone beeped with a message. I glanced at the screen. Mum, demanding I come home and help her with her latest get-rich-quick-scheme. She’d had to give up on her pet dictionaries after the dictionary creator discovered he could make more money self-publishing them on The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named. Now she’d put together create-your-own-soap kits with her friend Sylvia Blume, which meant the kitchen had become a disaster zone and every surface in the house was coated in a layer of glittery soap scum.
But what she was actually doing was trying to get me away from the clutches of Heathcliff. Because she couldn’t deal with the idea that I might choose the dirty gypsy over the rich and suave Morrie.
Because for some reason, when she looks at Heathcliff, she sees my dad.
The realization hit me like a freight train, slamming out all other thoughts. The words of my father’s letter blazed across my mind. If what he said was true, if he really was trying to protect both of us, then did my mother know about it? Everything in my life is a lie. I slipped the phone back in my pocket without replying.
“I’m ready for you guys to see this now.” I pulled the letter from my pocket and spread it over my knee. Morrie grabbed it, his eyes darting over the words before handing it over to Heathcliff. “What do you make of it?” I asked.
“This paper is unusual,” Morrie snatched the letter back, holding it up to the light. “It’s rougher than one would expect from Victoria’s stationery. The ink has an interesting patina.” He licked the tip of his finger and rubbed it against the edge of the letter, then tasted the ink. “As I suspected. This paper and ink predate 1896.”
“What else?”
“The drawings in the border support my assertion that the letter is older than when we received it. They look like the kind of drawings one would see on a medieval manuscript.”
Hmm… I dug around in the pile of books on the table and pulled out Herman Strepel’s volume of Homer’s Frog-Mouse War (It had a Greek name, but I still couldn’t pronounce it). Flipping through the pages, I stopped at one of the drawings of the mice attacking the frogs. “Like this?”
“Exactly.” Morrie picked up a magnifying lens from his desk and held it against the page. “I’d need to study both the paper and the ink under my microscope, but I think this letter might be contemporary with that book. Notice the handwriting?”
My stomach flipped as I compared the writing on both documents. That’s where I’ve seen it before. The strange flicks on the letters looked familiar because they exactly matched Herman Strepel’s handwriting.
“Does this mean my father is Herman Strepel?” I shook my head. “No, that’s impossible.”
In my pocket, my phone buzzed again. I ignored it.
“Is it? We know that your father was able to travel both ways through time, since Victoria noted he’d visited her at least once before.” Morrie smiled. “And implied they had shared intimacies.”
“Yeah, don’t say that,” I gulped. “You’re talking about my father doing things in that bed, and we did things in that bed.”
“Not nearly enough things,” Morrie said with a sigh. “I conclude that Herman popped over to our century-long enough to impregnate your mother and make some kind of powerful enemy before heading back to his own time.”
I rubbed my head where the migraine had progressed through my temple and across the left side of my skull. “This sounds like an episode of Doctor Who.”
“Doctor who?” Heathcliff grunted.
“Exactly.”
Heathcliff glowered at me. “What are you on about?”
“How have you not heard of Doctor Who? It’s only the best-loved British science fiction show of all time.”
“Heathcliff won’t let us have a TV,” Morrie said.
“What are you talking about? We have a TV.” Heathcliff pointed into a dark corner of the room, where the boys had stacked a mountain of dirty laundry. Morrie dug underneath it and pulled out a tiny box the size of his head. A large, crescent-shaped hole shattered the screen.
“Mr. Simson left that for me. He said I’d enjoy it.” Heathcliff stretched out his leg to demonstrate how the hole in the screen exactly corresponded to the toe of his boot. “He was wrong.”
My pocket buzzed again. I removed my phone and turned it off. Quoth raised an eyebrow at me.
Morrie held up the letter. “Can I hold on to this? I’ll do some investigation and see what we can find out. But it won’t be tonight, not if you’re staying.”
“She’s not staying,” Quoth said quietly. “I’ll walk you home, Mina.”
“You don’t speak for her, little birdie.”
“Neither do you. And Quoth’s right. I’m not staying. But I’m not going back to my flat, either. Jo and I are having a sleepover.” I lifted my rucksack from behind the chair. “I should get going. She’s waiting for me.”
“Why go to Jo’s when I’m here?” Morrie pouted.
Because you’re being a wanker and I need to not be around you right now. Also, because when you’re not a wanker, you’re a beautiful distraction, but I can’t have what happened last night happen again, not with this letter in my hands. “I just need some girl time, is all.”
“But I need you…” Morrie’s eyes darted to his computer, where Lydia was gyrating against his webcam.
“Have fun with Lydia and Ahmed!” I pecked him on the cheek. Heathcliff wrapped me in a bone-crushing hug, stealing a kiss that left me breathless. Quoth followed me down the stairs.
“Why aren’t you going home?” he whispered as he helped me into my coat.
“You know why.”
“You’re avoiding the guys and ignoring your mother.” Fire flickered in Quoth’s eyes. “You’re going to have to ask her about the letter. And your eyes.”
“I know.”
“What if the blood Victoria was talking about is hers—”
“I know!” I pulled my wool beanie down over my ears. “Trust me, I know. But not now. Not tonight.”
“Why are you avoiding dealing with this? I thought you wanted nothing more than to solve the mystery of Nevermore.”
“That was before I knew my father was involved.”
“Why does that change things?”
“Because… because it just does!”
Quoth winced. Remorse shot through me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yell. This letter has turned my head upside down. And Morrie’s being a cock and I just…”
Quoth leaned in and brushed his lips against mine. “I wish I understood. You sure you don’t just want to stay here? We could watch the stars through the attic
window.”
The thought of snuggling up with Quoth made my stomach flip, but I shook my head. “That sounds amazing, but I can’t. I need to think, and I can’t do that if I’m with any of you. You turn my head all mushy.”
“You still want me to come with you in the morning?”
“What’s in the morning? Oh.”
My heart dropped like a stone.
In the morning.
I’d completely forgotten.
In the chaos of the letter and Lydia and the Jewel Thief and the Jane Austen Experience, it had slipped my mind that I made an appointment with a new ophthalmologist in nearby Barchester General Hospital. She was going to run tests on my eyes and hopefully give me a clue as to how fast I could expect to lose my vision now that I was seeing random neon lights. Only Quoth knew about it because I asked him to come with me. It was the whole reason I was staying at Jo’s that night. The appointment was first thing in the morning and I didn’t want Mum or the guys to ask questions.
Shit shit shit. On top of everything else, I had to face the news of my impending blindness. Great.
I squeezed Quoth’s hand. “Yes, please come with me.”
His hands felt warm even through my woolen gloves. He leaned forward, pressing his lips against my forehead. “It’s going to be okay, Mina.”
I almost believed him.
Chapter Seven
“Are you sure you’re going to be okay in the hospital?” I asked Quoth for the fiftieth time as our rideshare joined the dual carriageway heading down to Barchester. “It’s a big place, and there’ll be lots of people and weird beeping machines.”
Quoth leaned across the backseat and squeezed my hand. “You’ll be there, and that’s all that matters. Stop asking me if I’m okay. That’s supposed to be my job. Are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. Worrying about Quoth accidentally shifting in public was distracting me from the true purpose of our little excursion. I didn’t want to think about it.
“I’m fine. Better when I’m not talking about it. How’s Morrie coping with his new friend?”
“When I flew down this morning, he was huddled on the chaise lounge under the window. I think he got kicked out of his bed. Lydia bounced down after me. I left as she was measuring him for his wedding top hat.”
The driver pulled up in front of a gleaming hospital. I hadn’t been inside Barchester General since I was in high school and I broke my arm in the mosh pit at a local punk show. My initial diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa came from an ophthalmologist in New York City, but since I didn’t have two quid to rub together (hilariously, being a bookshop assistant paid even less than my fashion internship), going back to him was out of the question. My new specialist’s office informed me that all my records had been successfully moved over.
Now there was nothing to do but face my doom.
My fingers curled around the edge of the seat. Quoth ran around the side of the car and opened the door for me. He took my hand. “You look like you’re heading to the gallows.”
“Maybe I am.”
“You’ve already had one shock this week,” he said. “If you want to go home and leave this for another day, I understand.”
My father’s letter flashed in front of my eyes. All night I stared at the ceiling in Jo’s flat, the words running over and over again, mingling with my fear of losing my sight. Twice last night I’d seen the floating neon lights, in lurid shades of pink and green. I couldn’t deal with that right now, but I had to deal with this.
I shook my head. “Don’t give me the option of turning this car around, because I’ll take it. I have to do this. Half the fear I have is the not-knowing. When I know, I can face it.”
Quoth nodded. He understood that better than anyone. Nothing in Quoth’s life had been defined. While Morrie and Heathcliff at least had memories from their book lives to turn to, Quoth had nothing but trochaic octameter, which was the least useful of all the poetic meters.
Quoth’s hand gripped mine as we made our way to the ophthalmologist’s clinic. A chirpy nurse behind the desk gave me a form to fill out and told me to take a seat. I scribbled some nonsense of the form and flipped through a fashion magazine while we waited for my name to be called. Marcus Ribald’s latest collection splashed across the cover. Seeing it felt weird, like another lifetime.
I tugged at the hem of the oversized Misfits shirt I’d made into a bodycon dress. After meeting the guys and learning about the book trade and solving two murders, I hadn’t thought about fashion in over a month.
“Mina Wilde, Dr. Clements will see you now.”
I stood up, steadying myself against the wall as my legs shook. Quoth rose too, turning toward me. He slipped his hand in mine and flashed me a beautiful, sad smile. I drew strength from his gentle kindness and forced my feet to move forward. We shuffled into a bright corner office overlooking the parking lot and a public garden beyond. The walls were covered with old black-and-white movie posters and vintage LPs. In the corner stood a black birdcage, where a cockatoo hopped along a perch.
Beside me, Quoth stiffened. I glanced at him in concern. Would he be able to remain in human form with another bird so close by? His jaw set hard. He gave a slight nod of his head and shuffled closer to me.
Dr. Clements stood to greet me. She was younger than I expected, with a friendly smile and head of layered red hair shot with bright pink streaks. I liked her immediately.
“Hello, Wilhelmina.”
“It’s Mina.” I pointed to a poster from the 1933 Dracula film that hung on the wall behind her. “Like Mina Harker. And this is my friend, Quoth. His parents were goths.”
“Mina and Quoth, it’s a pleasure to meet both of you.” She patted the chair beside her. “Have a seat. I’ve read your files from your New York specialist. It looks as though you’ve had all the usual diagnostic tests. I’m assuming you wanted to see me because there’s been some change in your vision.”
I squeezed Quoth’s hand. “I’m seeing these explosions of light,” I said. My voice sounded odd, hollow, as though I was listening to it from far away. I detached myself from the words I spoke, my consciousness to hovering above my body, so I looked over my own shoulder while I described my vision. It felt surreal, as though I spoke about some other person. “They look like fireworks or neon lights. They seem to happen when I’m particularly emotional or… or…”
In the middle of sex with one or more of my three fictional boyfriends, but I couldn’t exactly say that.
“Did Dr. Phillips explain to you about the typical stages of your type of RP?”
“A little bit.” Behind Dr. Clements, the cockatoo pecked at its feeder, squawking as it drew out a berry. Quoth’s fingers tightened against mine, but he remained still and human beside me.
“Your retina is a layer of light-sensitive tissue lining the back of your eye – they convert light into electrical signals that make their way to the brain, giving you an image. As the cells in the retina deteriorate, your brain attempts to create its own image to explain why it’s not getting signals any longer. That’s what you’re seeing.”
“Dr. Phillips explained that I might see lights or random shapes in the future, but he said it wouldn’t be for years.”
“That’s correct. I’d like to take a look at your eyes today, and we might be able to get a better idea of the rate of deterioration.” Dr. Clements wheeled over a diagnostic machine and took me through a series of tests. I studied graphs and arranged colors and looked at blinking lights. Quoth held my hand the entire time.
Back at her desk, Dr. Clements opened a drawer and offered me a Cadbury chocolate bar. I accepted it, peeling back the wrapper and shoving half the bar into my mouth. I offered the rest to Quoth, but he shook his head. While I chewed, Dr. Clements studied the screen. “I’m just looking at your results, Mina. What I’m seeing shows that the rate of deterioration on the retina has increased faster than Dr. Phillips predicted. This isn’t uncommon, as the deterioration can slow do
wn or speed up during any stage, and we don’t know what triggers these changes.”
I nodded, my mouth too full of chocolate to speak. Chew, chew, chew. My stomach churned in knots.
“From this point, it’s very hard to give you an exact timeline. Every person is different. But you are progressing more rapidly than we’d usually expect.”
I swallowed, the chocolate sinking to my stomach like a stone. “Can you take a stab at a timeline? How long before I go completely blind?”
“With your particular strain of RP, you may never go completely blind,” she said. “I’ve seen many patients who’ve retained some central vision. You will almost certainly retain light sensitivity. But I think over the next eighteen months you could expect your peripheral vision to recede further and you’ll see more of these fireworks.”
Eighteen months.
Numbness shot through my body. My temples screamed, as though my head had been dunked in ice water. Quoth’s hand squeezed mine, but I barely registered his touch.
Eighteen months.
The only single bright side in this whole mess was that I was supposed to have years. ‘At least five years’, Dr. Philip had said. Five years to deal with the trauma and come to terms with being blind and learn how to read Braille and find a pair of dark sunglasses that suited my face and whatever else I had to do.
Now even that had been taken away from me. Eighteen months. Icy panic gripped my chest. What was I going to do? I wasn’t ready. I didn’t have a plan. I was hanging out in a bookshop and fooling around with three guys and getting mixed up in murders and meeting Lydia Bennet. In eighteen months time, I wouldn’t even be able to read Pride and Prejudice, let alone sell it to a customer. How will I count money for the till? How will I list books on The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named?
How will I see the iridescent colors in Quoth’s hair as it captures the light, or know when his feelings change because of the orange fire dancing in his eyes? How will I continue to learn chess so I can kick Morrie’s smug arse? How will my whole body shudder with ecstasy when Heathcliff locks his gaze on mine?
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