“Oh, it’s very strange. For example, at this very moment, you’re standing right here in Alice’s Shop. But in theory, you might also exist in a parallel world where all the choices you’ve made and all the random events that have ever happened to you in life had outcomes completely the opposite of those they had in this world.”
Gilda considered this idea. Maybe, in a parallel universe, my father isn’t dead, she thought. But if I’m here now, how could I exist in another world at the same time?
“The problem with the theory,” said the clerk, “is that it’s impossible to test it if the parallel worlds can’t interact with each other.”
Gilda suddenly thought of the voice on the tape recorder and the music Wendy kept hearing. “What about ghosts?” Gilda asked.
“Ghosts?”
“I was just wondering: if you see or hear a ghost, is it possible that you’re actually perceiving a message from someone who’s dead in this world but still alive in a parallel universe or something?”
“I don’t know about that.” The clerk hopped back on her stool and picked up her sandwich.
Gilda decided this must be her signal to leave. “Well, thanks anyway—for the book and everything.”
“People used to believe something like that in medieval times,” the clerk said as if she hadn’t noticed that Gilda was just about to leave the store. “In those days, there were worlds of spirits and fairies that lived side by side with the human world.”
Something about this conversation in the dim, confined atmosphere of Alice’s Shop was beginning to make Gilda feel as if she had already slipped into another world. She waited to see if the clerk would say more, but instead the woman took a large bite of the sandwich and opened her book. “Anyway, hope you find what you’re looking for on the Alice Trail.”
As Gilda left the store, she noticed that the eccentric clerk was reading a copy of Alice in Wonderland.
That’s weird, Gilda thought. She’s probably read it about a million times already.
As Gilda walked up St. Aldate’s, she skimmed the little book she had just purchased. She read how Alice Liddell, her sisters, and Lewis Carroll had followed the river through a place called Port Meadow. Then—something caught Gilda’s attention—something that made her stop in the middle of the sidewalk so abruptly that an elderly woman bumped into her from behind and then turned to glare at her.
“Sorry,” Gilda muttered, still not looking up, because she had just discovered what might be an important clue: according to the booklet, there actually was a real treacle well in Oxford.
If you follow a path through Port Meadow, you will eventually find your way to a quaint churchyard—St. Margaret’s Church near the small village of Binsey. This simple, one-room church dates from the 12th century and is untouched by modern times.
Just behind the church, you will discover the well that inspired the “treacle well” in Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. The treacle well at St. Margaret’s Church does not contain molasses and sugar! The well sprung from the ground in response to a prayer of St. Frideswide, the patron saint of Oxford. Ever since, the well is believed to have magical properties—to be a “treacle well” in the ancient sense of the word “treacle” as a source of healing.
Was it possible that the odd phrase “fry wide” she and Wendy had heard on the tape was actually a reference to Saint Frideswide and the treacle well in Oxford? Gilda had no idea why a ghost might want her to know about this ancient well, but she decided she had to make her way down the Alice Trail to investigate it.
29
Julian and Jenny
So, Julian . . . honey”—Ms. Pickles huffed and puffed as she followed Julian up a series of narrow wooden staircases leading to the cupola at the top of the Sheldonian Theater—“tell me again, where are your father’s hotels?” It was about the twentieth prying question Ms. Pickles had asked since she, Jenny, and Julian had begun their sightseeing stroll around Oxford.
It was one thing, Julian thought, to make up a lively little story over dinner (while your piano teacher was in the Men’s room) just to add a little spice to the evening. It was another thing entirely when you had to keep talking about it for hours.
“Oh, most are in Scotland and Wales, in point of fact,” he said, praying that Jenny and her mother weren’t planning a trip to Scotland or Wales anytime soon.
“And what are they called?”
“Oh, various names. There’s Mabinogi Castle, there’s, um, Gwilymnogi Lodge and Tywynogi Manor House . . . hard to keep them all straight, you know.”
“And do you and your family visit up there often?”
“Oh, not so often.”
It was true that Jenny was friendly and smiled a lot and had great hair—the kind of girl you’d want to be seen with back at home, Julian thought. It was also true that being away from home for a few days had provided him with a rare opportunity to meet more than one girl who actually liked him. I guess it’s true what they say about American girls, he thought. It doesn’t matter whether you’re funny-looking or whether you speak the Queen’s English, Cockney, or some version of Scouse: they fall for an English accent.
Pleased as he was with Jenny’s attention, Julian couldn’t help thinking that her mother was a bit of a bore. The problem was, the two of them seemed to come as a pair. That’s why it’s best to have more than one girl, he reminded himself. You never know when someone’s going to go off you or you’re going to go off her, so you always need a backup.
They reached the top of the Sheldonian Theater, where they gazed across the entire city. Julian reminded himself to act as if he had seen it all before, even though it was the first time he had ever seen this view of the Oxford statues perched on college rooftops and the tips of pointy spires as far as the eye could see.
“Wow!” Jenny and her mother gazed across the city. “Isn’t it amazing? We’re standing here in a building that’s more than three hundred years old, looking out over Oxford University!”
“And just think, Jenny. You could be performing in the final rounds of the competition in this very building in a matter of hours,” Jenny’s mother added.
Julian wished that Jenny’s mother wasn’t around because it would have been the perfect opportunity to put his arm around Jenny. Maybe he wouldn’t have done it even if she hadn’t been around, but he liked to think that when an opportunity presented itself with a cute girl, as it rarely did, he would be man enough to take it.
“When I win the competition,” he said, “I’ll take us all on a trip up to one of my dad’s hotels.” He immediately wondered why he had been foolish enough to bring up the subject of his father’s nonexistent hotels when it had finally dropped from conversation.
Both Jenny and her mother regarded him with cold, blank faces. It took a moment for him to understand that this was because of his suggestion that he might actually win the competition. It had been a joke, but they clearly didn’t think it was the least bit funny.
Julian hadn’t even considered the possibility that Jenny might expect to win the competition herself. First of all, he hadn’t heard her play yet. Secondly, Jenny didn’t really talk about music the way the more “serious” kids did, so how would he know she wanted to win? Thirdly, why would a cute girl with such bouncy red hair bother to spend so much time playing classical piano music?
“Or—when you win,” he said, quickly correcting himself and feeling annoyed as he did so, “you can take us all there with the prize money.”
Jenny and her mother smiled with relief.
“With your family’s success and position, I’m sure you wouldn’t need the prize money to take a trip,” said Ms. Pickles, adding to Julian’s growing urge to extricate himself from the whole situation. He glanced at his watch. “I almost forgot,” he said, “my teacher will be expecting me, so I have to shove off soon.”
“I probably should go practice, too,” said Jenny, glancing at Julian with disappointment.
“I think I�
��ll head back to Wyntle House and grab a couple winks,” said Ms. Pickles, suppressing a yawn. “This jet lag is getting to me.”
At the mention of Wyntle House, Julian’s ears perked up. Didn’t Gilda say she was also staying at Wyntle House? He had a sudden urge to see if she was there. She was more fun to talk to than Jenny and her mother. Besides, the day was winterish and gray, and the idea of being cooped up alone in the practice room seemed too depressing to face.
After parting ways with Jenny and her mother, Julian made his way down Walton Street toward Wyntle House. Bracing himself against the cold wind, he stuffed his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and felt something in his pocket—a small piece of paper. Curious, he pulled it out and discovered a card with a strangely disturbing image—a tall stone tower beginning to crumble as lightning struck it from above. Tumbling from the upper turrets of the tower, a man and a woman dressed in medieval clothing fell headfirst toward the ground.
It was a tarot card titled The Tower.
30
Port Meadow
Gilda entered a small church graveyard shaded by yew trees and filled with mossy, tilting grave markers sunken halfway into the earth. Many of the tombstones were so old, she could no longer read the dates or inscriptions. The silvery trees surrounding the churchyard gleamed in the weak, golden light, and Gilda’s heart beat faster as she realized she must be very close to the location of the treacle well. According to her Alice Trail map, it was supposed to be behind the tiny stone church.
She felt the familiar tickle in her left ear as she approached the church, walking past a row of Celtic-shaped stone crosses that marked a family grave.
Behind the church, shallow steps led down to the opening of the treacle well. Gilda stood at the top of the steps, sensing coldness emanating from the black water below. At first, she was surprised at how unremarkable and easy to miss this “sacred landmark” was. She had expected to find something akin to the illustrations she remembered from nursery rhymes and fairy tales of her childhood: wells encircled by high stone walls and equipped with buckets hanging from pulleys. This well was far more subtle and easy to miss—but also somehow more mysterious. It was a circular hole in the ground that lacked even a simple plaque or inscription to explain its significance. Someone had left a bouquet of wilted roses at the edge of the water. As she peered into the murky depths of the well, Gilda reflected that something about the water actually looked treacly—as if it might be mixed with molasses and maple syrup.
For a moment, she imagined herself jumping into the well and discovering a secret entranceway to some magical world. After all, there was something about that circular hole in the ground that reminded her of Alice falling down the rabbit hole. For some reason, she also thought of her father. If he were still alive I’d probably try to bring him some of this water in a bottle, just in case it really is a “healing” well, Gilda thought.
Gilda walked slowly down the steps that led to the well, feeling as if she were stepping down into a grave. She remembered the strange story from Alice in Wonderland: “Three little girls lived at the bottom of a well . . .”
Gilda’s reverie was interrupted by the cracking of a twig behind her and a hand touching the back of her neck. Startled, she fell forward, down toward the dark water.
31
A Clue in the Graveyard
Crikey! Are you okay?”
Gilda caught herself just at the edge of the cold water, but she scraped her knuckles and thoroughly drenched one of her knees in the process. When she looked up she was shocked to see Julian peering down at her. What happened to Jenny? How did Julian find me here—all the way across Port Meadow?
“I’m sorry!” he said, a nervous laugh in his voice. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I wasn’t scared.”
Trying to compose herself, Gilda stood up and slowly walked up the steps from the well. As always, her heart beat a little faster around Julian. Along with her surprise at seeing him, she was also suddenly conscious of the random eccentricity of her clothing—the cloddish hiking boots she had paired with fishnet stockings, and the scarf she had wrapped over her pillbox hat and tied under her chin.
“What were you doing down there?” Julian observed her with an impish twinkle in his eye.
“I was just going to ask you the same question. What are you doing here?”
“Oh, I can see I’m not wanted.” Julian hung his head and pretended to shuffle away. “I’ll just be on my way, then.”
“I thought you were supposed to be on a date with Jenny Pickles.”
“I put her back in her jar.”
“Her jar? Oh, I get it. Pickle jar. Ha-ha.”
“That Jenny is a cute girl,” Julian continued, “but her mum asks too many questions.”
“Jenny isn’t that cute,” Gilda heard herself say, immediately wishing she had censored herself. She couldn’t help feeling mild satisfaction at the news that Jenny’s mother had actually tagged along on the outing.
“You’re jealous?”
“Of course not.”
“Then why slag her off?”
Gilda removed the scarf she had tied around her neck. She had an urge to tie it around her knee, which ached from being drenched in freezing water. “I didn’t say anything mean about Jenny. I just meant she’s okay-looking if you’re into the 1950s-beauty-parlor look.”
“Works for me.”
“Fine, Julian. Then why are you here?”
Julian’s face broke into a dimpled grin. “Maybe I like fishnet tights with hiking boots, too.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Look, I just didn’t much feel like practicing on such a gorgeous, gloomy afternoon, so I thought I’d see what was happening in the graveyard, that’s all.”
“Did you follow me here, or what?”
“That boy Danny told me you might be around here.”
“Danny?”
“The plump one at Wyntle House. Seems he has his eye on you.”
“Oh. That Danny. He better not have his eye on me.”
“He told me you were out ghost-hunting. He said, ‘She’s looking for the ghost of Rosamund the Fair, what wafts ’round the ruins of the nunnery beyond the meadow. I’m the one who gave her the idea.’ Strange little bloke.”
“That Danny has no idea what I’m up to.”
“What are you up to?”
Something about Julian’s bemused, curious gaze made Gilda waver, wanting to tell him the truth about her investigation. He told me he saw a ghost once, she thought. What if he could help me?
“Julian,” she said, meeting his blue eyes and trying to convey an attitude of gravity. “There’s something I didn’t tell you about myself.”
Julian placed his hands on Gilda’s shoulders. “Don’t tell me: you’re engaged to a top member of the Russian mafia, and for my own safety, you can no longer associate with me.”
“Obviously true,” Gilda joked, feeling acutely aware of the touch of Julian’s hands on her shoulders. She paused. “I’m actually a psychic investigator.”
“And I’m the ghost of Princess Diana.”
“I’m serious.”
“I left my tiara in the grave though, and—”
“Julian, there’s evidence of a haunting surrounding this piano competition, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of it.”
As the two of them walked slowly through the graveyard, Gilda described some of the strange events that had happened during the past few days.
“It does sound a bit creepy,” said Julian. “And I’ll grant you this; there are eerie things happening ’round here.”
“Like what?”
Julian pulled the tarot card from his pocket. “What do you make of this?”
Gilda studied the dramatic image of lightning striking a tower. She immediately recognized the style of the Gill tarot deck: it had to be from the same deck as the cards Wendy and Ming Fong received. “Where did you find this, Julian?”
&n
bsp; “I found it in my pocket when I was walking here. I assumed you gave it to me.”
“Why would I leave you this tarot card?”
“I reckoned it was a sort of flirty joke—something to give me a bit of a scare.”
“I know how to do tarot card readings, but I’m not the one who gave this to you.”
“So, who did?”
Gilda stared at the card, thinking. “Well, Jenny is the last person you saw before you found this, right?”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t seem like the tarot card type. I saw Danny, too.... Truth is, I left my jacket in the coatroom during my sight-reading performance, so almost anyone could have slipped me this card.” Julian considered the image of two people falling from a burning building. “Not a very encouraging fortune, is it?”
“That’s why my guess is that it’s from someone who wants to psych out their competition . . . unless something more supernatural is at work.”
“A ghost who wants to play cards?”
“Maybe a ghost who needs to disrupt things in some way—possibly a spirit who’s drawn to this piano competition for some reason. Oh—ick!”
Gilda stumbled. Her boot had stuck in a soft patch of mud. Her shoelace had come untied, causing her to pitch forward. Her shoeless stocking foot landed in the cold, squishy ground.
“Oh, crumbs! Here, grab my hand.” Julian grabbed Gilda’s arm helpfully, but was unable to conceal the note of mirth in his voice.
As Gilda balanced on one foot and leaned forward to retrieve her shoe, she felt such a strong and sudden tickle in her left ear, she almost fell once again. She quickly shoved her wet foot back into her boot and knelt down to examine a diminutive tombstone marking the grave exactly where her boot had planted itself deep in the mud.
The Ghost Sonata Page 15
