Ink and Ivy

by Sara Martin

  Copyright © 2018 by Sara Martin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Note from the author

  1

  The sky darkened with angry black clouds. Gripping the handlebars tightly, I pedalled onwards. Mum had warned me about the approaching storm, but I hadn’t listened. It had been sunny an hour ago. I never imagined the weather would turn so quickly. Now, I was desperate to get home before it inevitably poured down.

  The air grew heavier and more oppressive by the minute. I wasn’t going to make it. A droplet landed on the back of my exposed neck and rolled down my collar, drawing a shiver. The next thing I knew, I was drenched. The rain pelted down with such force I could barely see where I was going. My bike wobbled as the wind whipped at me.

  The streetlights hadn’t turned on yet although it was dark. A passing car’s headlights provided a temporary reprieve. I powered on through the storm, sodden and shivering. The thought of getting home and changing into warm, dry pyjamas kept me going.

  My bike glided along the slick pavement until it struck a pothole. With a jolt, the bike slipped out from beneath me. My leg hit the ground, then my palms came down with a scrape on the pavement. Dirty water splashed up my side. I hurt all over. Teeth gritted, I pulled myself from the gutter. My palms were raw and my leg was going to get an awful bruise, but that seemed to be the extent of my injuries.

  The damage to my bike was far worse. It was all twisted out of shape. I put my hand in my skirt pocket to retrieve my cell phone, but my fingers grasped thin air. A sense of dread filled my stomach. I examined the gutter and saw my phone, its back cover and battery lying in the stream of water. I swore and let out a moan of exasperation.

  Now what am I going to do? I gathered up the pieces of my phone and put them in the pocket of my backpack, although I knew there was no use in trying to save it.

  The rain wasn’t letting up. I had to walk—there was no other option. Perhaps I could find shelter somewhere along the way. I walked my mangled bike along the footpath. My body ached and my teeth chattered. Finally, I glimpsed a light up ahead. I quickened my pace.

  The light’s source was a small strip of shops. I could duck into one and call Mum to pick me up. I peered through the window of the first shop—a bakery. No movement came from within. I tried the door, but it was locked. The next two shops had closed signs on their doors. I was losing hope, but then, I saw a faint light from the next shop window.

  No open or closed sign and the door was shut. I clasped the handle and it relinquished. I was so surprised, I almost toppled over. Gathering myself, I took in my surroundings. The vast, grand room was furnished with exquisite antiques and art. Paintings and photographs in ornate frames covered the walls. A grandfather clock struck five. Had I entered a shop or accidentally walked into a wealthy nobleman’s living room?

  The closer I looked, the more certain I became that it was a shop. Display cabinets housed necklaces, rings, and bracelets. Glass dishes overflowed with beads, brooches, and various trinkets. Beautiful scarves and shawls were folded and boxed, while delicate laces, silks, and linens were neatly shelved.

  I marvelled at all the beautiful objects. A gorgeous piano stood in the corner. I couldn’t resist taking a closer look. I traversed the layers of rugs and inspected the old instrument. When I pressed a key, it stuck, sending a deep sound reverberating around the room and startling me. Someone cleared their throat behind me.

  “Can I help you?” said a deep, velvety voice.

  I swung around, startled. A tall, elegant woman stood behind me. She had pitch-black hair down to her waist, and she wore a long, flowy dress. She reminded me of Morticia Addams. Her arms were crossed, and her lips were pursed.

  My voice came out in a squeak. “I-I’m sorry. I was just—”

  The woman raised a thin eyebrow.

  “I was just fascinated. I’ve never seen a shop like this before. It’s wonderful.”

  The woman softened, a warm smile spreading across her pale face.

  I relaxed. She wasn’t so scary after all.

  She examined me closer. “You’re soaking wet. What happened?”

  I prayed I hadn’t traipsed mud all through the shop. Taking a cursory glance around the room, I was relieved when I didn’t see any damage. I tried to explain my situation. “I got caught in the storm on my bike. Then, I fell off it. I’m okay, just a bit wet. And cold. I was walking down the street, looking for somewhere to take shelter from the rain. The door was open, so I just wandered in. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “You’re hurt,” the woman exclaimed. She took my hand and examined the graze.

  “I’m fine.” I instinctively snatched my hand back and pulled my sweater sleeves down over my palms. “I need to call my mum and get her to pick me up.”

  “You’re welcome to use the phone.”

  “Thanks. That would be great.”

  “But, first, why not use the bathroom to clean yourself up a bit? There’s a first-aid kit in the cabinet too. Then, you can call your mum, and I’ll make you a cup of tea while you wait.”

  “Okay, that sounds good. Thanks. Where’s the bathroom?”

  “Come with me.”

  I followed the woman through a beaded curtain at the back of the shop, and we emerged in a small corridor with a steep, narrow staircase at the end.

  “Mind your head,” she said as we ascended. The height of the ceiling barely accommodated climbing the stairs.

  We reached a landing with two doorways.

  The woman motioned to the left. “Just through there, my dear. There are fresh towels in the hamper. Come back down when you’re ready. Take all the time you need.”

  “Thank you.”

  The woman returned downstairs.

  I nudged open the door. The small bathroom contained a toilet, shower and vanity. Potted plants stood on the windowsill, and vintage Guerlain and Chanel perfume bottles on the vanity. Reaching into the cane hamper, I grabbed a clean towel and flannel. I looked at myself in the mirror. The rain had washed away most of the dirt, but I still looked downtrodden.

  I stripped down to my polka-dot undies and blue t-shirt bra to inspect the damage. It wasn’t as bad as I’d expected. My shins were bruised and my knees were grazed, but the rest of me seemed fine. I pressed a damp flannel to my grazes, then dried myself with a towel. Wet school uniform in hand, I squeezed out as much water into the basin as possible. My clothes were still damp, but I had to put them back on. They were cold, and I
trembled uncontrollably.

  When I left the bathroom, the room across the landing caught my attention. The door stood ajar. Through the gap, I could see into a large and airy space. I crept across the landing to take a closer look. In the centre of the room were an easel and a chair. Various canvases leant against the walls, and a large drawing desk stood in front of a window that overlooked the village. I was tempted to go in, but a noise startled me, and I thought better of it.

  I went back downstairs. The woman ushered me into the kitchen where a kettle boiled on the stove.

  “Feeling better?” she asked.

  “Yep. Thank you.”

  “You look cold. Here—” she removed a grey sweater from the back of a chair “—put this on. My nephew left it here. Sorry if it’s not that clean, but at least it’s dry.”

  I gratefully took the sweater, removed my damp school jersey, and put it on. It was huge on me, but so thick and warm. It did smell faintly like boy, though.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” the woman asked.

  “Yes, please!” Just the thought of a nice cup of tea warmed me up.

  “Coming right up. Oh, by the way, the phone’s over there by the door.” She pointed it out.

  “Thanks.” I picked up the phone and called home. It rang several times before someone answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey. It’s Ivy. I need a ride home.”

  “What’s happened? Where are you?”

  “Well, I went to go return my overdue library books, but I got caught in the storm on the way home.”

  Mum sighed. “Where are you now?”

  “I’m in a shop.”

  “Where is this shop, then?”

  “Uh, hold on.” I asked the woman the address and repeated it to Mum. “28 Islington Lane.”

  “I’ll have to look that up. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

  “Okay.”

  She hung up.

  I sighed. At least the ordeal was over and I’d be safe and warm at home soon. I sat down at the table. The woman placed a tray with a cup of tea and gingernut cookies in front of me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Everything sorted?” the woman asked.

  I nodded.

  “Good.”

  I dunked a gingernut in the milky tea. After a few sips, I felt much warmer. The woman joined me at the table. The smell of her perfume comforted me; a mixture of leather, vanilla and tobacco. I decided to bring up something that was on my mind. “When I was upstairs, I noticed a studio…”

  “So, you saw Julian’s studio.”

  “It’s not yours?”

  She shook her head. “Julian is my nephew. He’s an artist with a wonderful talent for drawing. He helps me out with the shop, and I let him use the room above.”

  “Oh. Seems like a good arrangement.”

  “It is.”

  I wondered what her nephew was like and how old he might be. There certainly weren’t any Julians at my school that I knew of.

  “So, tell me a bit about yourself, dear. We haven’t introduced ourselves properly.”

  “Well, my name’s Ivy Beckett. I’m seventeen years old, and I’m in my final year at Bridgeway High School.”

  “Ivy. That’s a pretty name.” The woman’s dark eyes searched me. “Are you an artist too, like my nephew?”

  I was taken aback. I shook my head. “No, not me. I’m terrible at art.”

  “Oh. That’s strange.”

  “How so?”

  “It was just a feeling I had, that’s all. I can sense you have an artistic spirit.”

  “Really? I don’t think so.”

  The woman smiled warmly. “You’re still young. You’re still discovering things about yourself.”

  Despite the fact this woman didn’t even know me, her words mesmerised me. I couldn’t help taking them to heart. For some reason, they resonated with me.

  “My name’s Priscilla, by the way. This is my shop, Opulence. I sell art and various treasures from around the world.”

  “This is the most beautiful shop I’ve ever seen. It’s weird. I never even knew about this place.”

  Priscilla laughed. “I wish this shop will always remain a hidden gem.”

  “But don’t you struggle to get customers?”

  “I have a small, but loyal clientele. I prefer it this way.”

  Outside, the rain eased. I had just finished my last mouthful of tea when there was a knock at the door. Priscilla got up to answer it. I knew it was Mum, so I followed her. Priscilla opened the door and Mum swept in.

  “There you are. Come on, we’re going home.” She tugged me away.

  “Thank you, Priscilla,” I called on my way to the car.

  Priscilla smiled and waved from the doorway. “Do visit again.” She disappeared back inside the dimly lit shop.

  I remembered to grab my bike. “Can we put this in the boot?”

  “What happened? It’s broken!”

  “I had an accident.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m fine.”

  Mum opened the boot and tossed the bike inside.

  We climbed in the car and began the drive home.

  “Is now a bad time to mention I broke my phone as well?”

  Mum didn’t answer. She took a deep breath and pressed a little harder on the accelerator.

  2

  The storm cleared overnight. I woke with my alarm at seven o’clock, the sun streaming in my bedroom window. I stumbled out of bed and got ready for school.

  After a quick shower and Nutella on toast for breakfast, I left for school. When I arrived, Lana sat under the oak tree by the school’s entrance. She had a folder balanced on her knees and was furiously scribbling away on a pad of paper.

  “Hey,” I said, tossing my backpack on the ground and sitting down next to her.

  Lana didn’t look at me.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “I need to get this assignment done before third period.”

  “Your history essay?”

  Lana nodded as she continued to write.

  “Did you forget it’s due today?”

  “No. I haven’t had the chance to work on it. I’ve been flat out at the hospital. The other volunteer has been off sick, so I’ve picked up her shifts.”

  “You know you can always say no, right? You’re a volunteer. They can’t make you do anything.”

  Lana shrugged. “I like working there. Besides, I need to be able to handle this kind of workload. Med school is, like, insanely demanding.”

  “Yeah, I guess. But don’t overdo it, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” I pulled out a novel to read for the remaining few minutes before form class.

  When the bell rang, Lana and I parted ways to go to our separate classes.

  “See you in English,” I said.

  “See ya,” Lana said, putting her folder and pencil case away in her bag.

  When everyone had arrived and settled in form class, Miss April called the roll and then read the day’s notices. “In three weeks’ time, the school is having its annual careers fair. All senior students are expected to attend. Your parents will receive letters in the mail about it.”

  I had attended the careers fair the previous year. It had been a bunch of stalls set up by reps from different universities and trade schools. I wasn’t looking forward to going, but I was sure Mum would be eager to attend. It wouldn’t make any difference, anyway. The decision had already been made for me. The law programme at Hill University was considered the best in the country.

  When Miss April finished reading the notices, we chatted among ourselves until the bell rang for first period. I made my way to English, joining the other students flowing into the classroom. I sat down at my desk. Lana arrived shortly after and sat beside me.

  “Did you finish your history assignment?” I asked.

  “Not yet, but I can work on
it at interval. I’ll get it done. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried.” I knew Lana would never turn in an unfinished assignment. She was the top student in the school. She would never risk a hit to her GPA. It would put her scholarship hopes in jeopardy.

  Our English teacher, Mr. Donaldson, arrived in class. He looked dishevelled as usual, unshaven and glasses askew. “Books out everyone,” he said as he went to his desk.

  After a few minutes of reading, Mr. Donaldson got up and came around, placing sheets of paper on everyone’s desk. When he got to me, I picked up the piece of paper. It was a creative writing assignment. The topic was an accident. My brain was already at work trying to think of an idea.

  Mr. Donaldson stood at the whiteboard and, with a green marker, wrote An Accident - 800 words. Due Wednesday 21 March. He cleared his throat. “Attention, everyone.”

  There was a rustle as everyone put their books away.

  “It’s that time of year again. The creative writing assignment counts for five literacy credits. Your story must include a reference to an accident—literal or otherwise. The interpretation is up to you.”

  “Sir?” a voice asked from the back of the class.

  “Yes, Jamie?”

  “Are there any restrictions on what we can write?”

  “Anything goes, but please keep it PG. No explicit sex scenes. No gratuitous violence.”

  “Boring,” Jamie grumbled.

  Laughter rippled through the room.

  We spent the rest of class reading short stories for inspiration and brainstorming ideas. I loved writing, so I knew I would have a lot of fun with this assignment. When I left for my next class, economics, I was still thinking about what to write. I could barely concentrate while Mr. Elliot droned on about supply and demand curves.