One Word

by Anne Barwell

“Ethan, please.” Ethan preferred to drop the formalities when he wasn’t at school. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Gordon.” Luckily Donovan had already briefed him about which honorific to use.

  “I was sorry to hear about your friend’s disappearance,” Phoebe said. “I do hope your visit here isn’t a wasted journey.”

  “It won’t be,” Ethan assured her.

  The library, like the rest of the village, reminded him of something from another age, although he did appreciate the slower pace of the place. As much as he wanted nothing more than to escape his own thoughts these days, it was also a relief to be out of the rat race of his life. Between class preparation, marking students’ work, and trying to get his life back on track, he was beginning to feel like a hamster in a wheel, never quite getting to his destination.

  “Is there anything I can help you with today?” Phoebe asked. “We have a very well-resourced local history archive here, although I’m not sure how much help it will be.”

  “I’d like to look at the newspaper archives first, please,” Ethan said, “and then I’ll take a look at those. How did you know that was what I was going to ask?”

  Phoebe smiled. “It’s one of the reasons people visit libraries, young man,” she said, “and I doubt you’d come all the way here to find your friend and then spend the time reading fiction, no matter how compelling the story was.”

  “Good point,” Ethan admitted. How much did she know about Tomas’s disappearance? He glanced around the library. While it was far from modern, it wasn’t as old as some of the other buildings around it. “This isn’t the original library, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t.” Phoebe seemed pleased by his observation. “While we’ve kept the feel of the original, sadly it was lost in a fire some years ago.”

  “How many years ago?” Ethan asked.

  “The original library was destroyed in 1918,” Donovan told him, “but the archives go back later than that. There were copies of stuff stored off the premises, and a few local newspapers donated photographs and articles to replace what was lost.”

  “1918,” Ethan repeated. He frowned. “Isn’t that the same year that—”

  “Ah,” Phoebe said as though he’d just explained life, the universe, and everything. She lowered her voice although there were only a couple of other people in the library. “Not everything in life makes sense, Mr. Leavitt. Mr. Kemp is not the first person to have disappeared in the vicinity of the old Finlay place, and I doubt he will be the last. Sometimes it’s better to leave things alone, especially if we don’t know what we’re becoming involved in.”

  “Not the first person to have disappeared?” Ethan asked. Nothing he’d read about the area had mentioned that.

  “You are aware that the area is haunted, are you not?” Phoebe asked. “They say the ghost of a young man has been seen on several occasions.” Her face shadowed, as though lost in memory. “I, for one, don’t believe the stories he’s dangerous, but appearances can be deceiving.”

  “I’ve never seen him,” Donovan said. “Neither has Heidi.”

  “As far as you know,” Phoebe said. “Perhaps he’d appear as normal as you or I, and it would be difficult to tell until it was too late.”

  “Have you seen him?” Ethan asked. “That sounds suspiciously like the voice of experience.”

  “Children have good imaginations.” Phoebe neatly sidestepped the question. “Sadly our minds become more closed as we get older.” She picked up a pen and pencil. “So you’d like to take a look at our newspaper archives first, then? What year? I’ll show you where they are and get you started.”

  “Get us started,” Donovan said. “I figure this will go faster if I lend a hand. I’ll choose my new books once we’re done. Want me to grab something for you too?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll choose something myself.” Ethan adjusted the messenger bag on his shoulder. “And to answer your earlier question, I figured I’d start with whatever you have before 1920 and go from there.”

  “Always happy to meet a man who reads, Mr. Leavitt,” Phoebe said. “Do you have a preference for genre?”

  “I prefer my fiction to have a sound basis in fact, although I enjoy a good story. Everything has a rational explanation,” Ethan said. “It’s just a case of finding it.”

  “Very open-minded of you.” The side of Phoebe’s mouth twitched. Was she laughing at him? “If you’ll follow me, gentlemen, I’ll show you the archives. I do hope you’ve brought your own pens and paper.” She tsk-tsked. “It’s amazing the number of people we have coming in to do research who forget to bring those. One day I’m going to start charging for them.”

  “We’ve come prepared, Phoebe,” Donovan said, indicating Ethan’s bag. “And don’t worry, we’re not going to ask to use your stapler either. Are we, Ethan?”

  “Stapler?” Ethan decided it was better just to follow Donovan’s lead. “No, of course not. I thought you were a library, not a stationery shop.”

  Phoebe nodded approvingly. “You’ll go far with that attitude, Mr. Leavitt.” She led them toward the back of the library and through a door into a room with a computer, a microfiche reader, and shelves of newspaper boxes. “All the boxes are dated. The older papers are at the back, the latest at the front. Everything up to 1920 is also available on microfiche, and you can access sites such as the Times Digital Archive on the computer. Have you used microfiche before?”

  Ethan realized she was talking to him. “Yes, I’ve used them. Thanks for your help.”

  “You’re welcome.” Phoebe paused at the door. “There’s a coffee machine in the corner, but don’t forget to put a lid on your drink. Someone managed to tip coffee all over a new magazine last week. They were charged for it, of course.”

  “That’s something you want to avoid,” Donovan said after she’d left. “I had a mishap with her card catalogue the other week. Didn’t hear the end of it for days.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  TWO HOURS later Ethan stretched his shoulders, ignoring the ache across his upper back. “I think that’s enough for one day,” he said. “Any more pouring over newspapers and my brain is going to mush.”

  Everything he’d found only confirmed what Donovan had already given him to read the night before. Donovan had shown him where he’d found the information and pointed out a few newspaper articles but, as he’d already said, everything led to a dead end. Confirming that Cathal’s family might have lived in the area nearly one hundred years ago did nothing to help find where they—and by extension Cathal—might be now.

  “I’d hoped you might have spotted something I missed, but this is as much of a waste of time second time through.” Donovan returned the newspaper box in his arms to the shelf he’d taken it from.

  “You checked war records last time too?” Ethan asked. “Do you think Alice’s husband and his cousin were avoiding the draft?”

  Donovan had read through Alice’s letters several times, and said she’d mentioned some kind of upcoming war. “I’m not sure, and yeah, I checked that too. Come to think of it, the war references were in those dated after the First World War, and too soon to know about the second.” He frowned. “Actually I’m not sure that was the word she used. Uprising? Rebellion? It sounded deliberately vague. She urged her husband to be careful and then finished the letter with some weird shit about believing in dragons.”

  “What is it with dragons?” Ethan wondered. Mikey had mentioned them too, and his grandfather—Alice and Christian’s son, Wynne—had written about them in that book Tomas was obsessed with. Not only that, but according to Donovan, Wynne had even gone as far as telling Tomas that In Hidden Places was a true story, and based on his mother’s journals. “Should I be looking for dragon sightings in these papers?” he asked dryly.

  “Perhaps that was why the library burned down and they’re covering it up?” Donovan laughed at Ethan’s pained expression. “Hey, I’m joking. And you were the one who brought it up in the first
place.”

  “Yes, I did,” Ethan said. “Sorry, I guess my sense of humor is a little… off… these days.”

  “At least it was in better taste than mine.” Donovan mock shuddered. “I shouldn’t take my life into my hands like that—joking about a fire in this place. Phoebe would have me hanged, drawn, and quartered for less.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ethan said. “I won’t tell.” He couldn’t help but smile. It had been too long since he’d enjoyed banter like this with anyone. Duncan had never got his sense of humor, but Donovan was not only following along without any trouble, but possessed a decent one of his own.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could do with a beer,” Donovan said. “We still have an hour or so before dinner, so there’s time for a pint at the Worthington.”

  “That sounds like a great idea. I meant what I said last night about it being my treat.”

  Donovan opened his mouth as though he was going to protest, so Ethan continued as quickly as he could.

  “I insist. After all, you didn’t have to help me with all this research.”

  Ethan had enjoyed Donovan’s company. At one point he’d thought he’d found a clue and although his hope had quickly been dashed, Donovan had rested his hand on Ethan’s shoulder while he’d peered at the paper. He’d removed his hand quickly, but not before Ethan had noticed him blush. He suspected it mirrored the one he wore himself. Donovan was an easy man to like, and from the little he’d said about Tomas’s time at the inn before he’d disappeared, it appeared as though the two men had struck up a friendship.

  “Okay but let me grab my books first. I know which ones I want, so I’ll be done by the time you finish your coffee.” Donovan dashed out the door, throwing his empty cup in the nearby bin.

  Ethan found him among the fantasy fiction. “You’re a fantasy reader?” he asked.

  “Not really, although I’ll read anything with a decent plot,” Donovan replied. “I’m also partial to a good historical. Add in some time travel, though, and I’m happy. Best of both worlds and all that.”

  “I like a good action story,” Ethan admitted, “although lately I’ve been reading a fair amount of mystery and detective stories. Someone at work loaned me a book, and I got hooked on the genre.”

  “Heidi loves historical romances and science fiction.” Donovan pulled a book off the shelf, turned it over, read the blurb, and tucked it under his arm.

  “I don’t read romances. Never seen the appeal.”

  “Some of them aren’t too bad, actually,” Donovan said. “I’ve read some really good stuff in that genre.” He laughed at Ethan’s expression. “Hey, I’m not one of those guys who’s stuck in a narrow reading rut. If it sounds good, I’ll read it.”

  “If you say so,” Ethan said. “I have heard it’s important to broaden the mind, and all that.”

  “You might enjoy this one.” Donovan grabbed a book off the display shelf and handed it to Ethan. “It’s about a teacher who solves murders.”

  Ethan turned it over. He had to admit it might have potential. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll give it a go.” Hopefully it would keep his interest more than the one he was reading. “You’ll have to get it out for me, though. I don’t have a card.”

  “No problem. Just don’t forget to return it before you head back to London or you’ll have Phoebe on your ass.” Donovan headed over to the counter and waited for Phoebe to issue his books. Apparently Oakwood Library hadn’t moved enough with the times yet to have self-issue machines.

  Once she’d finished, Donovan thanked her politely and led Ethan from the library.

  “Do you want to leave your bag in the car, or take it with you?” He stopped when they reached his car but didn’t open it.

  “We’re not driving?” Ethan said.

  “It’s not far away.”

  “I need to visit the post office. Should I do that before or after?”

  Donovan considered. “Perhaps before, if it’s something you need to do today.” He hit his forehead with the palm of one hand. “Damn it. I forgot to grab my reserve. You go ahead to the post office, and I’ll catch up with you.”

  “Okay. I’ll keep my bag with me, then. Where’s the post office?” Ethan had spent some time on the phone with Mitchell that morning. He’d sent some photographs of Donovan’s carvings, but Mitchell wanted to see one for himself. After a bit of persuasion, he’d convinced Donovan to part with one of the small animals he’d carved, although he’d refused to take any payment for it. If Mitchell wanted to showcase his work, that would be payment enough.

  “Walk to the corner and turn left,” Donovan said. “You can’t miss it.” He glanced at Ethan’s bag. “You’re posting the carving to your friend Mitchell? I thought you’d want to discuss it with him some more first.”

  “He’s very keen to see it, so I figured the sooner I post it, the better.”

  “I still can’t believe the guy is interested in my stuff.” Donovan scratched the back of his neck.

  Ethan had debated not telling Donovan about Mitchell’s initial reaction at first, and keeping it a surprise for when he had more definite news to pass along. However, the decision hadn’t sat well with him the longer he’d thought about it. Not only that, but the carvings still belonged to Donovan and taking them under false pretenses wouldn’t have felt right.

  “I would have been surprised if he hadn’t been. As I’ve already told you, you’re very talented.”

  Donovan flushed. “I’ll see you in a few,” he mumbled and headed back to the library before Ethan could say anything else. He’d struck Ethan as someone who didn’t get flustered often, but he obviously needed to work on taking compliments.

  It didn’t take long to find the post office. The letters on the wooden sign swinging over the front door of the brick building needed a new coat of paint. The front and sides of the building had been whitewashed, but that didn’t hide its original brick red. Ethan didn’t understand why anyone would want to cover the brick in white paint in the first place. It was as though they were trying to convince themselves it was something it wasn’t. He had no time for pretense. Things were what they were—why hide it?

  The bell rang when Ethan entered. The man behind the counter looked up at him and smiled. A stand of postcards caught Ethan’s eye as he walked over. Perhaps he should send one to Tomas’s sister? After turning the stand a few times, he found one that featured the library, although the photographer seemed more focused on the climbing roses overhanging the front door than the building itself.

  Behind the postcards was a stack of calendars.

  “If you’re looking for local scenery, the calendar’s probably your best bet. They’re photographs of watercolors by local artists. There’s one of the inn too.”

  “Thanks.” Ethan picked one up and flicked through it. The inn didn’t look as it did now, as the roses only reached the bottom of the window on the ground floor. Whoever had drawn this had done so years ago. He peered at the signature and rolled his eyes before turning the page to confirm his suspicions. “Alice Finlay,” he muttered. “Of course.”

  “She was well-known in her day, at least locally,” the man told him. “Unfortunately, very few people have heard of her now.”

  There was something familiar about him—it took Ethan a few moments to realize he reminded him of Mikey.

  “Mr. Flynn?” Ethan asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” the man confirmed. “I’m Edward Flynn.” He had bright blue eyes like his son, but his hair was brown instead of red like Mikey’s, and already graying at his temples. Despite that, Ethan guessed Edward was only in his late forties, which put him at about twenty years older than Ethan. “You must be Mr. Leavitt. My son, Mikey, has spoken of you. It’s good to put a face to the name.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Flynn, and please call me Ethan.” He held out his hand. Flynn shook it.

  “Edward. We don’t stand on formality much around here.”

  “I’ll take t
hese.” Ethan put the calendar and the postcard on the counter. “Do you have any padded envelopes? I have something I need sent to London.”

  Edward bent down and pulled out a selection of different sized bubble-lined and padded envelopes from under the counter. “Here you go. There are pens over at the side counter, if you’d prefer some privacy while you organize your parcel.”

  “It’s fine. I can do it here.” Given the lack of customers, Ethan decided it would save time to do it while they talked. “I’ll take another one of those calendars too.” Mitchell would appreciate it, but Ethan would wait until they met again before giving it to him, as it didn’t have the same urgency as the carving. Ethan hoped he’d still be in Oakwood when Mitchell made a decision about it. He wanted to see Donovan’s reaction and his face light up when he got the news. He could imagine it now—that smile and another blush as Donovan tried to get his head around the fact that his carvings were as brilliant as Ethan had told him they were.

  “Do you need envelopes for those too?” Edward asked.

  “No, thank you.” Ethan pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found Mitchell’s address. One of the smaller envelopes was just the right size. He’d chosen one of the cat figurines, as it was what had caught his eye when he’d entered the workshop. Tucking the note he’d written to Mitchell around it, he addressed the envelope, then slipped the figurine inside. “How much to send this special delivery?” he asked, handing it to Edward. “I need it to reach London by first thing tomorrow.”

  “By nine or one? There’s a difference in the cost, depending on whether you want it there morning or afternoon.”

  “Morning please, so nine.” Once Ethan made his mind up to do something, he preferred to get it done. The sooner Mitchell received the figurine, the faster he’d make a decision about it.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

  Ethan waited until he’d finished paying and put away his wallet before replying. “I think that’s—”

  “Hey, Edward,” Donovan interrupted, already talking as he walked into the post office. He glanced at the calendars Ethan held. “I thought you were holding on to those.”