“Piper.”
“Crenshaw?” he clarifies.
Her eyes shift. She nods, uncertain. Layla’s mouth slackens, and she stares openly. Everett’s chest puffs out, and this complete stranger places his hands on her shoulders.
“Wait here, Piper Crenshaw, and do not move a muscle!”
He darts back through the store, up the spiral stairs, and to the room above.
“She stayed,” Layla says again, disbelief widening her features. “But why?”
“I think we’re about to find out,” Piper says.
Minutes later, Everett reappears at the balcony’s edge, waving something to her.
“Not a muscle!” he shouts again, pattering back down the stairs and returning to where Piper and Layla linger. Several patrons glance at them, but Layla’s shock is clearly blocking them out, and Piper isn’t sure what to think.
Everett places a small package into Piper’s hands. It’s faded and worn, like the envelopes she found in her old dollhouse, left there by Ada and her mother to help solve a different mystery.
“I’m supposed to pass this on. Never thought it would be me though!” He grins. “Hey, Tucker! Get out here and meet the infamous Miss Crenshaw!”
The boy peeks his head out and joins his father’s side. Everett wraps an encouraging arm around the boy’s shoulders.
“We’ve been waiting to meet Piper Crenshaw for the last eighty some odd years, haven’t we, son? Passed on down through the family. Utmost importance, my grandfather said it was. I’m only glad I was the one to give it to you!”
Piper’s heart stutters. “Th-thank you,” she says.
“That’s her writing,” says Layla, gripping Piper’s arm and reaching for the package. “That’s her writing!”
“Come on,” Piper says, walking in a daze. They track down Joel and Todd in the shelves, and meander back outside, not even waiting to get into Todd’s truck before opening it.
The package contains a stunning silver ink-well, or so Piper thinks—though on second thought, it could be some kind of perfume bottle—along with a number of letters. Piper’s chest tightens at the sight of her name, remembering all too well finding letters to herself hidden in her house not long ago.
“Well?” Todd prods. “What are you waiting for? Read it!”
Layla takes the letter addressed to her. There’s another addressed to Everly’s parents. Piper opens the letter addressed to her.
Piper,
I went back to rescue Nikolay and stayed in his time. It was necessary to complete the destruction of the ostium nexu, as well as to save Layla’s life, and I’ve never regretted it a day since.
Nikolay and I have been married for twelve years now. We have three beautiful sons—you may notice the name of the store has been changed to incorporate that. Nikolay continues his passion for creating books and selling them to anyone who asks, free of any ulterior ability to manipulate people’s lives. It is just another service, one we’re hoping will continue through the generations, as book binding is a dying art in your time.
I wish we could have changed the thread of time for you, Piper. But it was enough that mine was removed. It would have altered too much, affected too many lives, to undo what Garrett, Meiser, and Andrei did. It would have made the pathway too frayed to fix. But this way we have fixed it, and sealed it once more, leaving things the way they were meant to be. Untouched.
Here is a gift, something old, which I know you’ll hate! But cherish it anyway. It is a perfume bottle and was an heirloom from our ancestors. Your great-great-grandfather, Everett Crenshaw, gave this perfume bottle to my great-great-grandmother, Rosemary Cauthran, and I’ve always loved it, even before I knew of its origin. You can think of me, and of them, when you hold it, perhaps passing it on someday to your own children.
Live your life well, Piper, free of fear. Add music to the lives of others, and stand for good, as we know you will. Thank you for being my friend and standing by me. I know how hard it was for you.
I’ve really gotten into the swing of things—no pun intended—here in 1934. You know I’ve always loved old things. Living here, dressing in their flapper gowns and cloche hats, driving vintage automobiles and operating old telephones is exactly up my alley. I’m happy. We are happy. I hope you are too.
Love, Everly
Piper clutches the letter to her chest. Likewise, Layla grips hers, tears running down her cheeks.
“She stayed?” Todd asks in disbelief.
“I can’t believe it,” Piper says, wrinkling the letter in her fist and staring again at the glass and silver bottle. “What did yours say?”
Layla swallows as though cotton fills her throat. “She told me it was necessary. She did it for me. And she’s happy I found Joel, and that I shouldn’t worry because she’s safe and well and married to the man she loves.”
“That’s about what mine said too,” says Piper, giving Layla a sympathetic smile. “She loved him. She was happy.”
Layla sniffs. “She always did love old things. I just…I can’t believe she’s gone.”
“Just for now,” Piper says, pulling Layla into a hug. “Only for now.”
Things are never what they seem.
Ada Havens knows better than to walk down any dark alleys. The night she witnesses a murder-committed by Augustus Garrett, proprietor of Shady Heights-she finds herself deeper in Mr. Garrett’s secrets than she ever wished to be.
Mr. Garrett makes her an offer. He will spare her life in exchange for silence and servitude. Knowing she doesn’t really have a choice, Ada begins work as his kitchen maid.
The handsome stable boy, Thomas Gates, has also been forced into servitude to protect his family from scandal. Together, Thomas and Ada plot their escape, to find a life free from the darkness surrounding their master.
But Mr. Garrett has plans of his own, and Ada’s departure isn’t part of them.
one
1865
Ada Havens ducks beneath the bleary sky and fast-falling snow, tugging her shawl tight against the cold. The scent of burning wood smoke mingles with the brewing cluster of clouds overhead. She knows from the look of those clouds—the weather is about to get worse.
Ada trudges through the slush building up along the side of the streets. This kind of sludge doesn’t bode well, with the developing storm. The sunlight peeked through just enough that morning, but night is falling fast, bringing a freeze with it. Then horses and carriages—not to mention people on foot—will have an even harder time of it.
Mud beneath the melting snow clings to her boots and the hem of her heavy woolen skirts. She attempts to lift those skirts when the parcel of freshly laundered linens she worked all night to clean slips.
“No!” Ada cries, reaching for them before they hit the wet ground, but it’s too late. A rush of heat fills her cheeks and chest on the cold January day. She dives for the paper-wrapped parcel that is slowly darkening from the bottom up.
A horse-drawn carriage rickets past to finish the linen’s undoing, and Ada dives back just in time to avoid being trampled on, colliding hard with someone standing behind her.
The man catches her by the elbows as hot tears purge their way down, tears she’s attempted far too long to withstand.
“Excuse me,” she says, attempting to pry herself from him grasp, to run free before he gets the chance to see her cry.
“Now see here,” says the man, wheeling her around to face him.
Ada sniffles, throat tighter than a noose. “I’m sorry, sir. I meant no harm. Please—”
Her words cut off and she ceases her struggles at the curiosity in his eyes. By the heavy tone of his voice she expected him to be angry with her, but this is different. He is older than she, by twenty years at least. Similarly, the concern spilling from those eyes is almost fatherly.
“Are you alright?
” His voice is low and demanding. Harsh, despite the concern the words should show.
Reality hits in one fell swoop. The parcel. The soiled laundry. Never mind that she was nearly crushed by a horse and carriage driving far too fast. In fact, being struck by the runaway carriage might have been preferable to this.
“My mother,” Ada sputters as the man draws her aside, away from the bodies of those passing on the side road. Ada’s sobs overtake her and all of her stress, her worries pour out to this stranger.
“My mother is dying. That parcel was supposed to profit enough for me to buy her medicine. And how can we possibly pay the rent? I’ll have to work in a poor house, and Mother—”
She bites her lip. It wasn’t that long ago Mother returned from the sewing factory with an atrocious cough. The sickness has only progressed, refusing to dispel, no matter what any of the doctors said. Her father didn’t leave them much when he died, and they’ve expelled the remainder of their meager funds on Mother’s medical care.
“Come now,” says the man gruffly, digging something from his pocket. “You are too young and beautiful to cry in this manner.” He offers her an embroidered handkerchief.
Ada shields her hands. “No, sir, my hands are dirty—”
“Take it!” he barks. “I insist. And here, go get the medicine your mother needs.” He places a ten dollar note in her palm atop the handkerchief.
Ada’s eyes widen at the colorful paper bill. She’s never been handed so much money in all her life. “Sir!”
She struggles for an excuse. No one ever gives anything for free. She doesn’t want to think of what he might expect of her in return.
But she needs this money. It could save her mother’s life.
The man opens his mouth to speak, when another man in a suit and coat taps him from behind. Her patron rounds on him, and the servant cowers, ducking away slightly. “My apologies, Mr. Garrett, but we really must move on. A storm is making for Shady Heights, and the horses—” He gestures to the sky, then to the carriage parked a few feet back in front of an elegant store.
“Enough,” Mr. Garrett barks, a flash of anger crossing his gaze.
Ada recoils, wondering how someone so kind can snap so gruffly with every word he speaks. Perhaps it is just his manner. And then she catches the name.
“Mr. Augustus Garrett? The proprietor of Shady Heights?”
A smile breaks on his handsome face. Something is off about him, but Ada can’t quite place it. A warning builds in her chest, holding no interpretation.
He removes his top hat, huddling against the swirling snow. His dark, gray-streaked hair is matted to his forehead. “Augustus Garrett, at your service, Miss …?”
Ada grips her sullied skirts with frozen fingers and gives a slight bow. “Ada Havens.”
He looks her over, analyzing her appearance, her shabby, once-fine dress. “And where do you live, Miss Havens?”
She swallows, nervousness warning her not to answer. This man is doing you a favor. Perhaps he wishes to help further. “In Redding, the—”
“Slums. Yes, I know that place.” Before he passes judgment as she expects, he sighs. “Miss Havens, get your mother that medicine. And get inside, before this storm strikes.”
He returns his top hat to his head and stalks toward the waiting carriage, leaving her alone in the swirling snow.
two
Snow flurries through the quieting streets. People huddle together, scurrying indoors or into carriages. Shop after shop, the doors slam closed, curtains drawn to blind the windows.
Ada tugs her shawl tightly around her and hurries to the apothecary, her feet collecting bitterly cold snow with every step. She knocks and calls out, “Hello?”
After several seconds without a reply, she pounds on the wood, shouting over the wind. “Please, for the love of heaven, open your door!”
Sounds of a scuffle creep toward the door. The wind blows the tendrils of Ada’s hair that have escaped her careful bun, and she hugs her shawl tighter still.
Mrs. Border, the old shopkeeper’s wife, cracks open the door just enough to give Ada a glimpse of the lines around her wary eyes.
“If you please, ma’am,” Ada says, huddling against the chilling wind. “It’s my mother. I just need my usual, and I’ll be on my way.”
The woman narrows her eyes before giving a sharp nod and allowing Ada entrance.
She steps in, leaving a trail of snow behind her. The shop isn’t much warmer than the brisk street outside. Its boarded windows block out light and collect a shrill whine from one of its cracks where the wind attempts to break through. Various smells sift through the air, lavender and citrus, and other more pungent aromas like those in ointments.
“What’ll you have? Quick now, girl, before I close up.”
Ada browses the shop, the various sized jars of cures and ointments, lotions and powders. A pestle rests near a roll of brown paper, and various plants hang along the wall.
“The fenugreek seeds mixed with ginger and pepper, as you did the last time.”
“Chamomile tea as well?” Mrs. Border asks.
“Yes, please.” Ada displays the note Mr. Garrett gave her to prove she can cover it this time. She didn’t have enough for all this last week. Mrs. Border’s eyes flick from it to Ada and back again.
“Wait here.” She leaves, returning again several moments later with a small package. Wind howls outside, and Ada prays her mother is enduring her absence well. Or as well as she is able.
“That’ll be ten,” Mrs. Border says.
Ada’s hand tightens on the note. “Ten? But your prices—”
“Go up during a storm.” Mrs. Border snatches the ten dollar note from Ada’s hand. “Hurry along with you now.”
Ada opens her mouth, the injustice rattling in her chest. The price for medicine is usually a quarter of that. But her mother has been waiting long enough.
The money wasn’t truly mine to begin with, she tells herself. It is a blessing she had it at all.
She trudges her way through the spiraling snow, her feet like ice, soaked clear through to the bone. Redding circles the outskirts of Shady Heights, a blemish on the town, called after the man who banded homeless war veterans together and gave them somewhere to sleep when they returned from battle. The dirt between rundown shacks is eerily vacant; the people usually outside doing laundry or hovering around fires are nowhere in sight.
The shabby hovel called home awaits, fourth from the left. It’s a hunched, weary old thing, its tin roof a hat brimming over its sad eyes, nearly falling over beneath the onslaught of wind. Ada pushes through the door, and a chill that has more to do with gloom than cold sweeps through the dismal, one-roomed shack. The fire she started that morning has dwindled to coals. Her mother huddles within the blanket on the pallet bed Ada left her on.
“Mother!” Ada says, closing the door behind her. “I have it, I have your medicine. A kind stranger performed an act of mercy today. God is blessing us, Mother.”
She stokes the coals, adding the last few logs on and hoping it’s enough to rekindle the fire that blazed when she left this morning with the laundry. The pot and large stick she used to wash those linens remains on the table. The Wilsons will want their things, but she can’t think about that now. No doubt she’s lost them as a customer.
She retrieves the jar of fenugreek seed, ginger, and pepper mixture from her bag, her fingers so frozen she can hardly grip the cork. A sound comes from her mother. An exhaled mumbling of her name.
“Ada—”
Ada turns. “Don’t worry, Mother. Fortune smiled upon us. I was able to purchase—Mother? Mother?”
The blanket slips. Her mother’s arm escapes and dangles, hitting the dirt and straw-strewn ground. Ada drops the jar’s wrapping and hurries around the table.
“Mother!”
Her m
other’s careworn face tilts away, toward the wall. The usual, weak puffs of air emitting from her mouth like smoke exhale in one long breath.
Ada kneels to the ground beside her, waiting for more breath to escape. She presses ice cold fingers to her mother’s cheek and then shakes her shoulders. “Mother?”
Her mother’s eyes stare at the wall. Her lips no longer provide any release.
Ada can’t speak. Soreness overtakes her throat and lungs. Her eyelids turn hot while denial presses against her mind. Tears purge through, uncontrollable, ejecting from her heart, her soul, trailing down her cheeks, and yet she makes no sound. Just cries. And cries.
Her mother is gone.
Ada stares around blankly at the bare, rusted walls, the patched roof, at the collection of her father’s books she no longer has time to read, listening to the wind echo the sadness within her. Memory overtakes her, a solemn contemplation retracing her steps, leading her to wonder how things had come to this.
They were well-off before. Not wealthy by any means, but Ada was fed and clothed, and she was educated by a governess until her father had been killed in the American Civil War. The war had been hard on them all, but nowhere near as hard as the death of her beloved father. Mother changed then, like a part of her died on that battlefield along with him.
Ada focused on laundering, her mother worked in a poor house, but it hadn’t been enough.
And now, staring at her mother’s lifeless eyes, it truly is too late. Ada lays against her mother’s frigid body, letting despair fill all the empty parts of her and scrape against anything that even tries to hope.
three
Ada breathes in the fresh air, so crisp and sumptuous after being in the poorly ventilated factory. She pumps her hands a few times, but her fingers are stiff and frozen, sore after assembling fabric and sewing for hours on end. Weariness wears on her like a parcel she can’t put down.
The Forbidden Doors Box Set Page 54
