Colin was reeling with the information he’d learned, the fact that Beatrice Godwin, reincarnated had finally walked into his life and he could barely process any more.
“Look into the other one,” he ordered distractedly. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Byrne and I’ll phone you if I need anything further.”
Robert put the file on his desk and stood. “Can I say, Mr. Morgan…?”
Colin was staring at the file, knowing Sibyl’s remarkable life was inside.
He opened it randomly somewhere in the middle. He saw a copy of a newspaper clipping announcing, “Local Girl Wins Volunteer of the Year Award.” A younger Sibyl was shown in the photograph, holding up a plaque and smiling at the camera with her dazzling smile.
“Mr. Morgan?”
Colin’s head came up sharply. “What is it?”
His voice was impatient. He had things to do.
He calculated the time.
Colin’s mother and sister were at Lacybourne now, meddling and needling him about the American woman named Godwin. A woman he had not expected, three weeks ago, that they would ever meet.
Now, he knew, they most definitely would considering they’d be grandmother and aunt to that woman’s children.
Robert continued. “I know it isn’t my place to say but your Sibyl, she’s a bit… well, she’s got her heart in the right place but sometimes…” He stopped and then repeated himself, obviously uncomfortable. “It isn’t my place but you should keep an eye on her. She gets herself into trouble sometimes. Well… a good bit of the time.”
Colin nodded distractedly. That, as well as many other things about Sibyl, was now stunningly clear.
“Please send Mrs. Byrne in on your way out,” Colin ordered.
Dismissed, Robert left and Colin sifted through the file on his desk, watching Sibyl’s life pass by. On the last page there was a picture of her with four young girls aged around ten or eleven. They were staring at her with rapt attention as if she was the centre of the universe and she was smiling at them, her arms in full gesture, almost like she was dancing.
They needed me, she’d said.
“Jesus,” he growled.
“Mr. Morgan?”
He looked at Mrs. Byrne who was walking into his office.
“Please have a seat, Mrs. Byrne,” Colin invited, firmly controlling his thoughts, all of which damned him to hell, and he closed the file carefully.
She was watching him but she sat in a chair opposite his desk.
“Before you tell me what’s so urgent you’re here first thing in the morning, could I ask you one question?” he enquired politely.
“Certainly, Mr. Morgan,” she replied agreeably.
“Your story, about Sibyl, you met her the night before she came to my home, is that true?”
She watched him for a moment and then she nodded. “I told you, I know you may not believe me –” she began.
“Oh, I believe you,” Colin said smoothly.
This announcement startled her but she recovered quickly.
“But the reason I’m here is to tell you what my part is in all of this,” Mrs. Byrne explained.
“All of what?”
“You, Sibyl and Royce and Beatrice Morgan,” she announced.
He did not show any reaction to this.
Colin had a great deal to do and did not have the patience to sit through this interview. Considering she was just a meddling National Trust volunteer who had very clumsily, not to mention with the addition of with unneeded mystery, instigated a meeting with him and an American woman who looked like the portrait of Beatrice Godwin, Colin lost interest in her.
“Do you know of Esmeralda Crane?” Mrs. Byrne asked.
That got his attention and his eyes focussed on her.
Of course he knew Esmeralda Crane. Anyone with any knowledge of the legend of Royce and Beatrice knew it was Esmeralda Crane, the local midwife rumoured to be a witch who discovered the bodies of the newlyweds. She was also rumoured to be the one who cast the spell on them, linking their souls for eternity.
He sat back in his chair and raised his eyebrows but did not respond.
She inclined her head. “I’m her great, great… let’s just say, many ‘greats’ granddaughter.”
Colin decided the old woman sitting across from him was clearly unbalanced.
“You are?” he asked out of politeness because he was not at all interested in her tale and was trying to figure out a way to get rid of her.
Quickly.
“Yes, Mr. Morgan. And I, like my mother and her mother and so on, back to Granny Esmeralda, am a witch.”
Yes, Colin decided, clearly unbalanced.
He lost his patience but held onto his good manners.
Barely.
“Mrs. Byrne –”
She interrupted him. “Did anything unusual happen to you yesterday, Mr. Morgan?”
Colin froze.
She was watching him knowingly. What she saw while regarding him answered her question.
“I was in your offices yesterday, as your secretary told you. I should apologise for what I did but I don’t think there were any unpleasant consequences. It has been vowed down the line of Granny Esmeralda to do whatever needs to be done to –”
“What were you doing in my offices yesterday, Mrs. Byrne?” Colin cut into her rambling.
She fiddled with the straps on her handbag and hedged, “It was for a good cause.” But when he leaned forward menacingly she rushed on, “I put a potion in your coffee.”
She couldn’t have surprised him more if she got up and danced a jig on his desk.
Then he realised what she was saying and the implications and he began to lose his temper.
His tone was low and even when he asked, “What kind of potion?”
“A magical potion to bring forward a past life, in your case the life of Royce Morgan,” she explained.
He stared at her in disbelief.
There was, he knew, no such thing as magic.
She carried on. “For a time, a brief time, Royce, through you, would be in this world again. Using your body to exist in this time, he would be you but he would be you as Royce.”
Colin felt his fury building as he stared at the woman and realisation dawned.
The kiss.
If this bizarre explanation was true then he had, as Royce, been in Sibyl’s small chalet in her back garden most likely kissing who he thought was Beatrice.
And Sibyl had kissed him back.
You weren’t yourself, Sibyl told him.
He wasn’t himself; he was Royce fucking Morgan, kissing Sibyl. Kissing Sibyl in a way that made tears come to her eyes.
Colin felt a searing jealousy tear through him even though he knew it was ridiculous, because it had been him but also, it had not.
Fury he could no longer contain made Colin slowly stand.
Mrs. Byrne watched him, her calm never leaving her and she stood as well.
“I had to do what I did,” she defended herself. “You and Sibyl did not have a very good start and things were not progressing very smoothly.”
His hands were clenched into fists but he held himself in check, though his voice was dangerous.
“Do not ever do that again, particularly, do not give such a…” he could barely make himself say it because he could barely believe it, “potion to Sibyl.”
“Of course not! I wouldn’t dream of it!” she cried, clearly affronted at the very thought.
“But you not only dreamt of it, you did it, to me,” he shot back.
“You’re a bit more difficult than Sibyl. She’s a sweet woman,” Mrs. Byrne replied calmly.
“I know that!”Colin thundered and, surprisingly in the face of his fury, Marian Byrne smiled.
“Well, finally. I thought you thought we were a couple of con artists. Hardly complimentary of myself but certainly not Sibyl…”
He stopped listening to her, sat back down in his chair and buried his head in his hands, restin
g his elbows on his desk.
This, although he didn’t know it, was a posture Mrs. Byrne was familiar with as she’d seen Sibyl do precisely the same thing.
His carefully controlled life had just turned over.
He was sleeping with a real life avenging (if somewhat misguided) angel, willing to raise shotguns at abusive husbands and sell her body for old people. This same angel was, apparently, the living reincarnation of the woman he, and his entire family, thought would magically enter his life at some point, not only to be his wife, but also to fulfil some longstanding legend of true love. He was right then sitting across from a “witch” who thought she was, and could even be, the descendent of the famous Esmeralda Crane. And she’d given him a magical potion that evidently worked, very well. He’d just decided to marry Sibyl, though he could not imagine, considering her spectacular temper, how she would react to all of this. And in the midst of that, how he’d convince her to bind herself to him in holy matrimony at the end of it, considering what he’d done to her.
Mrs. Byrne cut into his thoughts by asking, “Mr. Morgan, are you quite all right?”
His head came up with a jerk.
“Mrs. Byrne,” he starting, making a quick decision, “what are you doing for dinner next Tuesday evening?”
Colin had finally broken her steady calm and she blinked in surprise.
“I… I… don’t have any plans,” she stammered.
“Good, then you’ll be able to join my family, and Sibyl’s, at dinner at Lacybourne.”
She stared.
She smiled.
She accepted.
“I’d be delighted.”
Chapter Fourteen
Real Dream Man
It was sing-along day at the Day Centre Pensioner’s Club.
Not that the oldies ever sang along, every once in awhile the organist would play something they liked and they’d all sing but that only happened about once a month. They usually just talked and smoked but they always clapped for the hardworking organist after she finished a song.
Sibyl never got any work done on sing-along day. The organ was too distracting.
Today, she was simultaneously creating a flier that advertised the Talent Show while she was writing a letter to the Council to beg them to rewire the building.
Neither of these were going very well.
She was also considering the astonishing possibility that she was, and always had been, a witch with magical powers.
She was also thinking about what happened in her Summer House Laboratory with Colin, this she seemed to be able to concentrate on (with great focus).
Lastly, she was just plain old thinking about Colin and this she seemed to be able to concentrate on very well (with even greater focus).
And Royce, of course.
But mostly Colin.
Last night, she’d picked up the phone to call her mother (and then put it down) at least a half a dozen times. She desperately wanted to explore the idea of magic, dreams and premonitions but her mother would eat it up. She’d be too excited actually to help Sibyl make any sense of it and Sibyl desperately needed it to make sense.
Since she couldn’t ask Mags and she couldn’t look in the phonebook under “witch” or “magic” or “clairvoyants” to get a professional opinion, she was on her own.
This all so prayed on her mind, Sibyl was considering coming clean with Colin, telling him about her nightmare and all the dreams since.
But if she did, he’d leave her. He’d think she’d gone around the bend. Even though she had the feeling he liked being with her (and definitely knew he liked being in bed with her), she wasn’t certain (indeed she was quite uncertain) that was strong enough to withstand her admitting to him she thought she had magical powers.
She shouldn’t worry about him leaving her, but she did. Especially after how he’d treated her yesterday in that strange, sweet way.
And that was all there was to it. She couldn’t deny it and she couldn’t lie to herself about it although she really wanted to.
She had months with him and she decided she was going to hold on to them and then…
Well she’d worry about life after Colin when it happened.
“Hey Billie,” Jemma was at the door of her office, “come out here for a second.”
Her friend’s eyes were dancing and Sibyl smiled despite her unhappy thoughts.
“What is it?” she asked, following Jem into the Day Centre.
“Just come into the Day Centre, I’ll be back,” Jemma walked behind the huge tables that were all shoved together in the middle of the room. The oldies sat around the tables to have their lunch and then lounged the hours after in conversation. Jem waved at the people who called out a greeting to her, gave Sibyl a gesture that told her to wait and sidled through the sliding doors.
Luckily, the organist had stopped and was basking in her weak, distracted applause.
“Sibyl, is that you?” Mrs. Griffith, sitting in her customary seat by the Day Centre doors, shouted over the clapping from across the room.
Sibyl walked down the tables, touching a few of the oldie’s shoulders lightly while she passed and, when she arrived at the old lady’s side, she crouched down beside Mrs. Griffith.
Mrs. Griffith was another of her favourites (Sibyl had to admit, she had many favourites). She was a crotchety old bird who complained about everything, could go on for hours about her ill-health and disliked everyone.
Except Sibyl.
And she liked Sibyl for one reason, because Sibyl had brought her animals with her from America. Mrs. Griffith liked pets and once she heard Sibyl had not left hers behind, that was it, Sibyl was on the (very) short list written in Mrs. Griffith’s Good Book.
Mrs. Griffith had the habit of grasping onto Sibyl’s hand in a death grip whenever Sibyl talked to her.
This she did now.
“I heard your new lad is too busy to come visit us. This, Sibyl, is not a good sign,” Mrs. Griffith announced in a dire tone.
Sibyl smiled despite the fact that Colin seemed everywhere, even here, where he should not be and replied, “Annie talks too much, Mrs. Griffith.”
“Tell him he must come,” Mrs. Griffith demanded. “I want to have a look at him. If I don’t like him, I’m writing a letter to your mother.”
Mrs. Griffith often threatened to write to Sibyl’s mother, but, as yet, (to Sibyl’s knowledge) had not done so even though she’d demanded to have and received Mags’s address.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she promised her friend on an utter lie.
The last two words were drowned out by Jemma who was now standing at the sliding doors that led into the hall.
And as Sibyl straightened and looked her way, it appeared Jem was making an announcement.
Sibyl vaguely noticed that the door behind her opened and closed but she, as well as all the oldies, were captivated by the usually very quiet Jemma Rashid making any announcement.
“Ladies and gentleman, I’m proud to present a sneak preview to Cadbury Community Centre’s Talent Show. I give you, Flower, Katie, Emma and Cheryl, the Greasy Girls!”
And that was when the girls made their entrance wearing saddle shoes, bobby socks, poodle skirts and fluffy pink sweaters with black scarves wrapped around their necks. Their hair was pulled back in ponytails and they looked adorable. They stood giggling and posing and Sibyl felt pride sweep through her at the sight.
Sibyl, who could not sew, bought all the clothes, shoes and socks and Jemma had made the skirts from the fabric and other bits and bobs that Sibyl also purchased.
And Sibyl stood, with Mrs. Griffith still clutching her hand in a death grip, and smiled, every bit of her pride showing.
All the oldies were shouting their compliments as Sibyl gently disengaged her hand from Mrs. Griffith and walked around the woman, clearing the tables and standing several feet in front of the door.
And as she did she clapped and shouted, “I love it! You girls look great!”
The girls noticed her and all came rushing forward jumping around her with excitement.
“Do you love it, Miss Sibyl? Do you think we look okay?” Katie asked.
“Oh Katie, you look fabulous.” Sibyl bent over and kissed the top of girl’s head then straightened and caught Katie’s chin in her hand. “I’m going to get you some redder than red lipstick and some blue eye shadow and the pinkest blusher I can find. It’ll be perfect!” she announced, thinking Katie would go agog at the idea of makeup.
But Katie was no longer listening to her or, for that matter, looking at her. Instead, the girl was looking behind her.
Sibyl noticed belatedly that the excitement had died to a very strange (for the Day Centre), eerie quiet.
“Who’s he?” Emma breathed, also peering behind Sibyl.
Then Sibyl smelled it, a woodsy scent liberally spiked with cedar.
She whirled and there stood Colin, wearing a handsomely tailored dark suit and an expensive looking deep lavender shirt opened at the collar. He looked like a movie star who had come on a Make-a-Wish errand, standing, powerful and strong and exuding all of his sex appeal in the drab and worn (but cheerful) Day Centre.
“Colin!” she cried, her heart skipping three beats before it began racing like a wild thing.
What on earth was he doing here?
“Sibyl,” he replied calmly, staring at her like… like, she didn’t know. She couldn’t put her finger on it but whatever “it” was made her stomach go funny, her knees go weak and her heart stop momentarily before bouncing around in her chest, out-of-control.
There was no other way to put it – it was a Royce Look, pure and simple.
“What are you doing here?” she forced herself to voice her thought.
Before he could answer, Marianne, the Centre’s bingo caller, shouted throatily from the back, “Billie, is that your young man?” After voicing her question, Marianne collapsed into a fit of smoker’s cough and, once she finished, she sucked another drag off her ever-present cigarette.
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