by Nancy Warren
When I had collected, not only twenty-four stockings that were all wonderful, and brightly colored, but also the five deluxe stockings that Christopher Weaver had made, as well as the other items that Clara had specified, I headed back toward the market. The day was cold and cloudy, but no one seemed to mind. The Sunday afternoon crowd was at its thickest. I’d planned to help out at Timeless Treasures, but, once we’d displayed the new stock, Clara and Alfred clearly didn't need me. In such a small space I was only in the way. I thought I might wander around and perhaps get something to eat, when I noticed that Gemma had a crowd of people around her soap stall. It seemed she was struggling to keep up with them all.
She'd been rude and peculiar earlier, but it was her first market, and I hated to see anyone overwhelmed. I knew well what it was like to feel overburdened in a new retail enterprise. I hesitated only long enough to close my eyes and reach out to her with my mind. I immediately picked up her distress, so I slipped behind the table beside Gemma and asked, "Who's next in line, please?"
I hadn't asked permission and she cut her eyes to me. But Gemma didn't look annoyed by my interference; she looked desperately grateful. I was no expert on soap, but I could take money, make change, wrap packages, and wish people Happy Holidays. Any questions about ingredients, shelf life, whether this particular soap was good for dry skin, and so on I referred to Gemma. We worked surprisingly well together, manoeuvring comfortably around each other in the small space. It didn't take me long to pick up the basics. That one there was made with goat's milk, the Castile soap was pure olive oil and unscented, so very good for sensitive skin, this one here had oatmeal and was excellent for exfoliating. A cheerful older woman said, "I’d better take half a dozen assorted soaps, and four bottles of that lovely bath oil. Now I've bought these extra long stockings from across the way I need more gifts to stuff them with."
I said, making change, "Your family will be delighted."
"I think so, too. I can imagine these stockings in my family for years to come."
When things wound down, finally, Gemma let out a breath. "Phew." She shook her head. "I don't know what I would've done without you."
"You would've managed."
"Or lost my mind."
"Don't you have any help at all?" I didn't think she could manage the whole market all on her own.
She was tidying things up, adding stock to her displays. "I told you. I had a friend who was going to help me, but then her boyfriend got sick and she had to stay behind."
"Oh, that's too bad." In fact, she’d told me her friend was the one who got sick. Maybe there was no friend and she felt embarrassed not to be able to afford help.
"I'll manage on my own. I'll have to."
"Well, any time I'm around, I'm happy to help."
"Look, you really saved me. Let me buy you a drink when we’re done."
I'd planned an early night—after an hour or so spent studying my grimoire—but I sensed that Gemma was lonely. If her friend had let her down, maybe she needed someone to talk to. Besides, I didn't have many friends my own age, I needed to put some effort into making some new ones. "Sure.”
Once the market was closed and we’d shut and locked our chalets for the night, I led Gemma a little way down Cornmarket Street to The Crown, a pub whose main claim to fame was that Shakespeare made it his headquarters when he was travelling between Stratford and London. It also had a great atmosphere, lots of cozy corners to sit in, and good food.
We both sighed when we sat down and got the weight off our feet. Standing on hard pavement for hours was not the easiest activity on the body. I stretched my aching feet out in front of me.
"What can I get you?" Gemma said, standing up. "I'm going to have some of their hot, spiced wine."
At the end of a chilly evening, that sounded like a great idea, so I said I’d have the same.
She soon returned with the hot drinks and we clinked glasses and sipped. It was lovely, winey and spicy and the drink warmed me all the way to my aching toes.
We looked at each other and I could see us both searching for that first get-to-know-you question. Finally, she said, "So, where's home for you? You sound American."
I smiled at that. A few months ago, I would've struggled to answer that question. However, in the time I’d lived here, I had embraced Oxford, Cardinal Woolsey's, the nest of vampires living beneath me, and was beginning to accept the magic within me. I said, "Oxford is home. I was born in Boston, though. I mainly grew up there, but I spent most of my summers here, working at Cardinal Woolsey's Knitting Shop, with my grandmother. She passed away a few months ago and left me the shop. And now I live here and I run a knitting shop."
"I'm sorry about your grandmother. Were you close?"
I nodded. "We were." And that hadn’t changed. At this very moment Gran was conducting two dozen knitting vampires, encouraging them to turn out their best work. She might be undead, but I adored her.
"How about you?" I asked. "Where are you from?"
"London. Well, the outskirts of London. Crawley. Mum was a teacher. That's where she found a job, so that's where we moved when I was little." She sighed. “I lost her last year, to cancer.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thanks. It’s hard because we were best friends.” She didn't mention a father, so I didn't pry.
"I've never been to Crawley. But that's no surprise, there's a lot of England I haven't seen. It's hard to find the time to travel and run a shop."
She nodded. "Plus, Oxford is so pretty, living here must be like being on holiday, all the time."
We chatted until our glasses were empty and then faced that moment when we had to decide whether we were going to say goodbye, have another drink, or stay for something to eat. I was now warm, comfortable, and the thought of going home and trying to make my dinner in the midst of a knitting factory did not appeal. I was positive I'd be assigned a non-knitting menial task like rolling wool or something. I’d already done my bit, so I thought staying here seemed much more interesting. Besides, I liked Gemma. I wanted to get to know her. So, when she motioned to my empty glass and said, “Another?”
I said, "I tell you what. I’ll let you buy me another drink and I’ll buy us dinner.”
She argued that she'd be taking advantage but I explained that I didn't feel like cooking and she'd be doing me a favor and, in the end, she agreed. I am particularly partial to shepherd's pie and so, it turned out, was she. We both had shepherd's pie and, instead of more mulled wine, each had a glass of red wine.
As we settled over food, we grew more relaxed with each other. The fact that we'd already worked together for a few hours had broken the ice. I asked, "Do you make soap and personal beauty products as a full-time job?"
"Oh, no. I do it as a hobby. I'm taking my teacher training. I do this to help cover my bills while I'm at school."
"Were you able to find accommodation?" I knew that finding a place to stay in Oxford was notoriously expensive. If I hadn’t already had Meri staying in my spare bedroom I might've invited Gemma to stay with me while the market was going on. She said, "I was able to get a deal on a hotel room in Botley. It's fine, and the bed's comfortable."
"Good." I remembered her strange reaction to Dominic Sanderson's fantasy trilogy and Ian's theory that she'd received a poor grade from the notoriously picky professor. "Did you go to one of the colleges here?"
She laughed and shook her head." Even if I’d had the grades, I could never have afforded to come to school here. No, I had to be close enough so that I could live at home. Mum supported me while she could. My dad did his best, but he's got no money."
I was incurably nosy, and I couldn't seem to leave the subject alone. "You seemed pretty angry about Dominic Sanderson."
She pushed a bit of mashed potato around with her knife and I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Finally, she said, "My dad and Dominic Sanderson were close friends here at Oxford. But Sanderson was a bad friend. He ruined my fath
er's life."
I wasn't entirely sure I had heard her correctly. A university friend had ruined her father's entire life? She had to be thirty, so this life-ruining thing must've happened a long time ago. "Must have been quite something to have ruined his whole life."
"It's a long story." She chuckled, bitterly. "In fact, it's three long stories."
I might not be a literary genius, but I had to assume she was referring to Sanderson's fantasy trilogy. Especially, since she had acted so hostile to seeing the bag in Ian's hand. Nothing I'd seen before or since had led me to believe she was an angry person, but where Sanderson and that book were concerned, she was angry.
She shook her head. "I shouldn't have said anything. It's just so weird being here. I wonder if coming to Oxford was a mistake?" She seemed to be speaking to herself, so I sat there and listened. She glanced up at me and then back at her half-empty glass of wine. “Truth is, I needed to get away from a guy.”
“Oh, no.” I knew all about getting away from bad break ups. I’d come about four thousand miles to forget Todd the Toad. I waited, in case she wanted to say more, not wanting to pry, but we were a couple of single, straight women out in the pub, getting to know each other. Of course, we were going to talk about guys.
She pushed her copper hair over her shoulder with one impatient hand. A silver ring glinted from her finger. “His name’s Darren. I met him in the pub when I was out with some friends. Seemed nice enough. Okay looking. He chatted me up and I gave him my number. He called and we went out a few times.”
A couple walked by our table, arguing. She was telling him they’d be late if they didn’t get going and he insisted they had time for another pint. He was a hefty bloke and he knocked our table as they went by. The table jerked so violently that both our wine glasses started to tumble. I muttered a spell under my breath, faster than I could reach the glass with my hand, and the glasses tilted straight again, table and wine stilled instantly. If I’d been thinking I wouldn’t have done it, but magic was becoming second nature to me.
The grumpy guy was still arguing for his pint and hadn’t noticed the almost-disaster, but I was terrified Gemma would look at me in fear and drag me straight to a witch trial. She only stared, then giggled. “That was weird.”
I forced a laugh, too. “Yeah. I totally thought they were going to spill.”
“Shakespeare must be looking out for us.”
Absolutely, blame it on Shakespeare!
“So,” I prompted, “Darren?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Darren. Not one of my better decisions. We dated a few times and he started getting possessive, talking about the future in unnerving ways, like how many children we were going to have. He was getting his gas-fitter’s license and working out where I could get a teaching job and he could get hired on with a good company. He had it all planned out. When we’d buy a house and have our first child.”
“Seriously? After only a few dates? I was with my last boyfriend for two years and when I talked about moving to the next stage of our relationship, he went and slept with somebody else.” We all had our issues.
“I wish Darren would. I told him to slow down, I wasn’t ready, and then he started acting really strange. Showing up outside my house. I’d get off school and he’d be there, on his motorbike, waiting for me.”
It sounded horrendous. I felt creeped out just hearing about this guy. “What did you do?”
She leaned forward and her hair caught the light, copper, brass, and hints of gold. “I broke up with him, of course.” She blew out a breath. “That’s when he threatened to kill himself.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. I’m so stupid, I believed him. I tried to get him help. But all he wanted was my attention.”
“I’m so sorry.”
She nodded. “It’s one of the reasons I came here. I’m hoping if I’m out of town, he’ll move on or forget about me.”
“Seriously? That’s why you came to Oxford?”
“Well, I also wanted to come and see it. Dad was a student here and—I think this is where he was happiest.” She looked uncomfortable suddenly. “You’re a good listener. I’m talking too much.”
“No. This is what women do. We support each other.” I hesitated to give advice, but she’d been honest enough to tell me her problems, I couldn’t sit here and not give her some candid feedback. “Have you talked to the police?”
She dropped her gaze to the table top. “No. What would I say? Darren hasn’t done anything. He never threatened me, only himself.” She glanced at her cell phone. "It's getting late. I should get back."
"Yes, so should I."
We both stood and then she turned to me. "Thank you so much, again, for helping me out today."
"Hey, when I was first struggling to find my way around Cardinal Woolsey's I had some help, too. I don't know what I would've done without it. I'm just paying it forward."
She nodded. "And one day I'll do the same."
"Deal."
We didn’t make a big deal of goodbyes, since we’d see each other tomorrow. She headed off to get a bus that would take her to her hotel, and I walked home. The quickest way home was going straight down Cornmarket, but I didn't always feel like taking the most obvious path. I was still finding my way around this fascinating city and so I took the slightly longer way round, down Queen Street and New Inn Hall Street which crosses the top end of Harrington Street.
The rest had done my feet good, but I was glad I didn't have too long a walk ahead of me. I was accompanied by the clicking sound of my boots on pavement and my thoughts, which centred on my new acquaintance, Gemma.
I felt that she was troubled by more than what she’d told me, and wondered if I'd ever have enough of her confidence that she would tell me why she was really here.
There was a time, not so very long ago, when I might have pressed, convinced that it was good to share troubles. However, since I had lived in Oxford, I’d come to understand that some secrets can't be shared. So, I hadn't pried.
I stopped walking. I didn't turn around, or even search the shadows, I simply stopped walking and said aloud, “I know you're there."
Chapter 5
A soft chuckle greeted my words and Rafe appeared at my side. "You always accuse me of appearing like a puff of smoke. I can't believe you heard me over the infernal noise you're making with those boots."
I hid my smile. He was irked that I had sensed his presence. "I didn't hear you. I felt you. It's like a cool tingle on the back of my neck."
He looked at me intensely. Now I realized I only got that tingle with him, not the other vampires, and if he asked, I'd have to tell him that. And then he would wonder why he affected me that way. Unless he already knew. "It must be my witchy sense," I said.
He was still looking at me in that intense, broody way he had. "No doubt."
"So, are you just out for a stroll? Or are you following me?" In truth, I hadn't felt him when I was in the pub, only since I'd left.
He walked at my side for a couple more steps and then said, "I don't have to follow you. I sense you, too."
"Really? You get a tingle on the back of your neck?"
Once more that silence that went on a beat too long. Finally, he said, "I can smell you."
Oh, how I wished I had never started this conversation. I knew he meant me no harm, but when a vampire said, "I can smell you," it did not fill me with warm and fuzzy feelings. The words cold-blooded killer flitted across my mind before I could shake them away.
He said, "We both have senses we can't control. But we can keep our impulses in check."
I didn't look at him. I just nodded. I searched for something to say that would move away from this intensely awkward conversation but he got there first. "How was your evening?"
"It was good. Gemma seems really nice. But she has a sadness about her." We walked on. "You've been in Oxford a long time, haven't you?"
"Probably too long. I'm going to have to move on, soon."
"Oh, no." The words were out before I could stop them. I didn't want him to leave Oxford. I couldn't imagine not having Rafe in my life.
"Part of the curse of being a nightwalker and mingling with mortals is that we don't age. I'm beginning to hear the joke about being Dorian Gray. He’s the Oscar Wilde character who sold his soul to the devil in order to retain his youthful looks."
"I know who Dorian Gray is," I said, scornfully. Sure, he knew a lot more than I did, but I wasn’t completely lacking in literary knowledge. Then I thought about the idea of selling one’s soul to stay forever young. "I guess, in a way, you did."
"You mistake,” he said with bitterness. “I didn't choose this existence, it was forced upon me."
"Of course it was," I said quietly." I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "One becomes accustomed."
He couldn’t change his fate, but he could choose where he lived. "You won't leave very soon, will you?"
His gaze held mine. He shook his head. "No. I won't be leaving anytime soon."
I could breathe a little easier knowing he’d be staying. One day, I’d have to say good-bye to Rafe, but I was very glad it wasn’t going to be today. "Gemma seems very angry with Dominic Sanderson."
"The author?"
"Yes. She said he ruined her father's life. They used to be students together, here in Oxford. I know it was a long time ago, and a lot of students go through here, but I just wondered if, by any chance, you might have heard rumors?"
"Of course. That's why she seemed so familiar to me." He sounded quite pleased. "It's been driving me mad. I knew I'd never met her personally, at least I thought I hadn't, but there was a familiarity about her." He walked on in silence for a full minute and I left him to his reverie, knowing he would share his thoughts when he was ready. Finally, he said, "Yes, it's all coming back to me now. What's her surname?"
I’d seen her name on the list of all the booth owners, but I hadn’t memorized all the names. "I think it’s Gemma Hitchins? Hodkins? Something like that."
