“No servants? You cook your own meals and turn down your own beds?” Lydia fanned her face, her expression what could only be described as ‘aghast’. “I’ve been in this world but two hours and already I long to return to the mediocrity of Longbourn!”
“That’s not possible, so get used to it.” Heathcliff’s patience had already worn thin.
“You can have a husband if you want one,” I said, trying not to give her the wrong idea. “It’s just that you don’t have to think about it now. Most people wait until they’re older. You’re only sixteen, right? You could go to school and—”
“Who wants to go to school? I’ve had quite enough of books from my sister Lizzie. I shall have a husband. If Wickham is lost forever, then one of you shall have to step up. But which will it be? I shan't like to live in this dingy house, and a shopkeeper’s living will not keep me in the manner in which I intend to become accustomed. So Mr. Heathcliff is out of the question.” With a wave of her hand, Lydia disregarded literature’s greatest romantic hero and turned her gaze to the criminal mastermind. “You, then, Mr. Moriarty. What sort of fortune do you command?”
Morrie laughed. “Darling, I think you’re a little young for me.”
“I’m not too young, and I am already out.”
“Out? Out where?”
“Out in society, you fool. You may be handsome, but you’re terribly simple.” Lydia smirked at me. “No wonder Mina here has no clue how to dress like a lady.”
I stared down at the Misfits hoodie I’d hastily pulled over my pajama bottoms. “What’s wrong with this outfit?”
The shop bell tinkled. “Bloody hell,” Heathcliff yelled at Morrie. “I told you to flip the sign while we dealt with this!”
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Don’t worry.” I held up my hands. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Please,” Morrie clasped his hands to his chest. “Don’t leave me alone with her.”
“Sorry. She’s your future wife and your responsibility. Me and my unladylike attire have to go and do our job.” I shut the door to the Classics room in Morrie’s face and strolled into the hallway to meet our customer.
“Cynthia, hello.” I plastered on the biggest smile as I recognized Cynthia Lachlan, member of the infamous Banned Book Club and wife of big shot developer Grey Lachlan. I hadn’t seen Cynthia since the unfortunate day her friend Gladys Scarlett died of arsenic poisoning right here in the shop. “Welcome back to Nevermore Bookshop. What can I do for you today?”
“Mina, you’re exactly the woman I wanted to see,” Cynthia gushed, grabbing my hands in hers and squeezing my fingers. Her wrists jangled with gold bracelets. “I came by to thank you again for cracking poor Gladys’ murder. Grey and I would still be locked up in that rotten police cell if it weren’t for you.”
Because Cynthia and her husband (who I’d never managed to meet) stood to gain by Gladys’ death, and Grey had access to arsenic through his construction contacts, the police had them in custody under suspicion of Mrs. Scarlett’s murder until I solved the case for them. “Please, there’s no reason to thank me. I wanted to find out the truth and—”
“Nonsense. You’ve done me a good turn, and I want to make sure you have compensation.” Cynthia fished around in her purse and pulled out an envelope. “I know how much you love books and reading. We’re hosting the first Argleton Jane Austen Experience at Baddesley Hall. You might’ve heard about it?”
“A little bit, yes.” I choked back a laugh. Mrs. Ellis had been talking about nothing else for the last week. According to her, the Lachlans spared no expense for their extravagant event. The VIP tickets cost thousands of pounds each and included accommodation at the house and cuisine from a Michelin-star chef they flew in from Paris.
“Tickets sold out months ago, of course. But there are certain privileges to running the event.” Cynthia pressed the envelope into my hand. “Grey and I would be honored if you and your three lovely friends would attend the Jane Austen Experience as our VIPs. These tickets will get you an all-access pass to all the events, a beautiful suite with two double rooms at Baddesley Hall for the weekend, meals, and a seat at our table for the ball on Saturday night.”
“Oh, um…”
“A ball?” A voice called from the end of the hall. Lydia stood in the doorway to the main room, her empire-waist dress sweeping the floor as she jumped up and down with glee. “It’s not yet the season of course, but I will acquiesce to attend.”
Mrs. Lachlan’s eyes widened. “You look as though you’re dressed for the ball already, ma’am. Do you not already have a ticket?”
“Who needs a ticket to a private ball? One is either invited or they aren’t,” Lydia glared at me. “Considering you’ve cruelly pulled me into your world from one where I would marry the delectable Wickham, this is my best opportunity to secure a husband—”
“This is Lydia, ah… Wilde,” I said, thinking fast, as Cynthia peered at Lydia with curiosity. “She’s my second cousin. Her parents sent her over for the Christmas holidays to enjoy the festival. She’s French, you know, so she’s a little…” I made a motion that Cynthia might interpret in a myriad of ways.
“I’m not French.” Lydia stamped her foot. “How dare you say such a thing!”
“I told you,” I winked. Cynthia nodded and stepped away. She pointed at the envelope in my hand. “I didn’t know you had family visiting. I’m afraid I have only four tickets available…”
Lydia scurried forward and grabbed the envelope. She pulled out one of the tickets. “This one’s mine. What you do with the rest is your business.”
I peered in the envelope at the three remaining tickets. My hand thrust into my pocket, touching the edge of my father’s letter. We just got this big potential clue about the mystery of Nevermore Bookshop, and that something in the future is going to be bloody, and my father is somehow mixed up in it. Is it really the time to spend a weekend away?
But then I thought about how weird Morrie was being lately, and how maybe it was to do with being shut up in the shop, and how the tension that held Heathcliff together relaxed when he was outside, in the fresh air, and how Quoth hid away in the attic with his paintings and his beautiful sad eyes.
And I couldn’t escape the idea of all those rich people with their fancy jewels, all the extra staff, all the people coming and going… the perfect hunting ground for the Argleton Jewel Thief. No way was the burglar going to pass up this opportunity.
As much as I wanted to sit in the bookshop and figure out why my father was sending me notes from the past, and why Victoria had seen me covered in blood, I also wanted to… not think about it. Because my head was already a mess. I still hadn’t told Heathcliff or Morrie about seeing the neon lights. And when I did… Nevermore would no longer be an escape from my problems. I wasn’t sure I was ready to face any of it – my dad, my eyes, my feelings for the guys – yet.
Maybe getting out of Nevermore for a few days would help me prepare, and it might sort out Morrie’s bad attitude. That is, if Lydia didn’t force him to marry her.
Cynthia glanced from Lydia back to me. “So you’ll come?”
Behind her, Heathcliff poked his head through the door and made a throat-slitting motion with his hand. I beamed at him and swiped the three tickets. “Thank you, Cynthia. We wouldn’t miss the Jane Austen Experience for the world.”
Chapter Six
“What are we going to do about her?” Morrie hissed. The four of us huddled around the flat’s blazing fire. Outside the window, light snow fluttered past the window on its way to blanketing Argleton in fluffy holiday ambiance. Empty takeaway containers from the Curry House littered the table, and the air was thick with the scent of rogan josh and Irish coffee.
In case we hadn’t figured out to whom he referred, Morrie jabbed his finger at his desk chair, where Lydia slouched, squealing with glee as she punched the keys with a single finger.
“I did it!” she cried. “Lord Moriarty
, I have created my first social media profile. Look at all the men who’ve inquired about my friendship already! This is infinitely easier than waiting for Daddy to introduce himself to the eligible men in the neighborhood. I wonder if I can talk to some soldiers…”
The floor at Lydia’s feet was littered with empty soft drink cans and chocolate bar wrappers. She’d spent the whole day demanding Morrie (or Lord Moriarty, as she now called him) acquaint her with the pleasures of modern living. After an exhaustive lesson in electricity and microwave popcorn, she dragged Morrie outside and demanded he order her a rideshare ‘carriage’ so she could experience the wonders of the automobile. They drove off into the countryside and returned with five bags of junk food and a very subdued master criminal. Now Lydia swiveled around in the chair, her eyes sparkling. “Lord Mooooorrrriarty, this man named Ahmed has sent me a letter. Oh, it appears to be some sort of portrait. I wonder if he’s handsome…”
“Click the envelope icon and find out,” Morrie said with a sigh. “None of our other fictional visitors have been this exhausting.”
“Your charge has settled in nicely,” Heathcliff said.
“She’s not mine,” Morrie shot back.
“You might want to tell her that, Lord Moriarty,” Heathcliff sneered.
“She insisted that if my bank account was as bloated as I claimed, I must have a title!”
Lydia frowned at the screen. “That’s not a portrait! It appears to be some kind of wrinkled sausage. But why would this man feel the need to share a likeness of his meat with me?”
I snorted. Lydia had just become the first Bennet sister to receive a dick pic. She had much to learn.
“Apparently, I’m to be her escort for this ridiculous weekend,” Morrie declared, pinching his temples as if he fought off a headache. “Perhaps I can arrange a convenient suicide.”
“Come on, Lord Moriarty. it’ll be fun,” I beamed, even as my own headache flared at the edges of my skull. In the corner of the room, a neon-green light wiggled across the darkened edges of my vision.
“Fun?” Morrie picked up the brochure and read from the list of activities. “What’s fun about a costume promenade, or a hat-making workshop, or a lecture on sex and sensuality… no, actually, that one does sound intriguing.”
“That’s the keynote given by Professor Julius Hathaway.” I pointed to the man’s picture over Morrie’s shoulder. “He’s the historian who first discovered Jane’s connection to Argleton. Apparently, he’s a bit of a celebrity to the Janeites.”
“Janeites?” Morrie’s lips curled back in a sneer.
“It’s the affectionate term for Jane Austen fans.” I directed his attention to a glossary on the back page of the brochure. “Apparently, Janeites walk, talk, dress, and live Austen. The only thing they hate more than movie adaptations with inaccurate costuming are Brontians – those are fans of the Brontë sisters—”
“I deduced that,” Morrie said snippily. “I don’t need you to explain every little thing. Sex lecture aside, you still haven’t convinced me why I should deign to attend.”
“Because I want you to. That used to be enough.”
“I’m not so blinded to your charms that I follow you like a puppy,” Morrie declared. “Or like a raven.”
Quoth, who sat cross-legged on the floor beside my chair, his head resting against my leg and a sketchbook open in his lap, stiffened at Morrie’s words. I resisted the urge to call him out. Morrie wouldn’t give ground and speak of his feelings in front of the other guys, and especially not in front of Lydia. If I wanted the truth from him about his recent rudeness, I’d need to get him alone. And resist his kisses for long enough to draw an answer from him. Neither of those things was going to be easy.
I tossed the newspaper in Morrie’s direction. “Fine. How about an appearance by the Argleton Jewel Thief? With all the rich guests, I bet you he’ll be tempted to show up. If you want something to engage your intellect, we might try to smoke him out, provided your ego hasn’t swelled so big you can no longer fit through the doors.”
From the desk, Lydia snorted. “That was a truly impressive slander, Mina. I shall have to remember it for future interactions.”
Morrie’s eyes scanned the article. “Intriguing.”
“So not your work, then?” Heathcliff’s eyes sparkled. “I was certain these jewels might soon adorn Lydia’s thin neck.”
“Not me.” Morrie tossed the paper on top of the empty cartons. “Okay, I’ll go. But I’m not dancing with Lydia.”
“Yes, you are!” Lydia shrieked. “I must show you off at the ball, or I won’t be able to make any of the other men jealous. You are integral to my plans.”
“Let Lydia show you off on the dance floor,” I grinned. “I can’t very well show up with more than one date, and I’m already taking Heathcliff.”
“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.
Pride and Premeditation Page 4
