Maybe… maybe it was connected to Herman Strepel’s old bindery—
“I’m off, dear!” Mum called up the stairs. “Thank you for arranging this today.”
“It was all you, Mum. I’m all dusty so I won’t come down. I’ll see you tonight!” The shop bell rang, signaling her departure. My heart racing, I slid the book into my lap and flipped open the cover. The pages were hand-written – rows of Greek letters and bright illustrations of a mouse and a frog. In another image, an entire army of mice marched into battle armed with swords and shields.
I flipped to the back of the book. A gasp escaped my throat as I recognized the name and markings. I scrambled to my feet and rushed downstairs.
Downstairs at his desk, Heathcliff was barely visible behind a wall of animal language dictionaries. “I see my mother has recruited you into her pyramid scheme,” I said.
“That woman is the real Terror of Argleton,” he growled. “What’s a pyramid scheme?”
“Never mind that now.” I threw the book down on the desk. “I think the shop is trying to tell us something.”
“How do you figure that?”
“First that mouse shows up and terrorizes the neighborhood, the upstairs room opens up, the mouse re-appears in our suspect’s house, you reveal to me that Mr. Simson told you about me all along, and just now I found this lying in the middle of the floor upstairs.”
“So some wanker left a book on the floor. They do that all the time.”
“I don’t think so. Look at it.”
Heathcliff slid the book across the desk and flipped open the cover. “Yes. As I suspected. It’s an old, smelly book.”
I jabbed my finger at the pictures. “Look. Mice! And here…” I flipped to the back and showed him the bookbinder’s markings. “Herman Strepel. Don’t you see? It’s a sign.”
Morrie wandered in from the other room, his eyes lit up with curiosity. Quoth fluttered over from the armadillo and settled on the till. All four of us peered at the book as Heathcliff flipped through the pages. “A sign of what?” he snarled.
“How should I know? As well as a lack of Medieval Latin, fashion school also didn’t prepare me for reading Ancient Greek or deciphering cursed bookshops.”
Morrie whipped the book from Heathcliff’s hands and held it up. “I’ve heard about this. This work is called the Batrachomyomachia, supposedly written by Homer.”
“Homer Simpson?” I grinned.
Heathcliff glowered at me. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Sorry, couldn’t help it.”
“Homer, of course, is regarded by scholars as one of the oldest and finest storytellers of all time.” Morrie flipped to the back and studied the last page. “And the fact that this is a Strepel edition cannot be a coincidence.”
“Croak,” Quoth agreed.
“I thought Homer wrote those epic poems, the Iliad and the Odyssey – about Achilles and Paris and the Trojan war. I don’t remember any mice or frogs.”
“So you did take Classical Mythology at fashion school?” Morrie lifted a perfect eyebrow.
“No,” I stuck my tongue out at him. “I saw the Brad Pitt movie. Ashley had a huge crush on Orlando Bloom.”
Morrie sighed, as if there was just nothing he could do with me. “Batrachomyomachia means ‘The Frog-Mouse war.’ In this story, a mouse goes to the lake to have a drink, and he meets the Frog King, who invites him to his house on the other side of the pond for tea. The mouse hops on the Frog King’s back and they start to swim across the river. Halfway across, the Frog King meets a fearsome water snake. Terrified, the Frog King dives to safety, forgetting all about the mouse on his back. The mouse drowns.”
Heathcliff leaned back in his chair. “That’s a terrible story.”
“Agreed.” I followed the illustrations over Morrie’s shoulder. “Where’s the farm-mouse who grows up to save the world, or the tavern-mouse with a heart of gold?”
“Croak!” Quoth interjected.
“It’s not over yet.” Morrie flips to the next page. “Another mouse witnesses the first mouse’s death. He goes back and tells all his mouse friends what the Frog King did. They arm themselves and head to the water. The frogs mobilize. The gods watch all of this and have an argument about whether they should get involved, as gods are wont to do. They agree just to watch. The mice win the battle and they’re slaughtering the frogs and doing their victory dance over the tiny frog corpses or whatever, when Zeus summons a force of crabs out of the water to attack the mice. The mice are afraid of the crabs and retreat, and the battle is over. A few frogs live to fight another day. The end.”
“I retract my earlier statement,” Heathcliff said, a glint in his eye. “Give that author a Pulitzer.”
“Do you think Homer might be the next fictional character to come to the shop?” Morrie’s eyes lit up in excitement.
I took the book from him and studied the carefully-drawn images of mice and frogs duking it out. “Unlikely. Homer was the author, not a character.”
“Not necessarily. It depends on where you stand on the Homeric Question.”
“What question is that?”
“Oh, gorgeous,” Morrie sighed, flopping down into his favorite velvet chair. “Brad Pitt hasn’t taught you a thing. The Homeric Question is one of the biggest debates in Classical scholarship. Did Homer really exist, or was he just another character in Greek mythology? Was he one person or many people? Was he a she? When did he or she pen the epic poems? Oh, this is too exciting. I’m going to make a list of questions for when he or she arrives.”
“Don’t get your expensive knickers in a twist. We’ve had plenty of fictional visitors, and a book has never randomly preceded their arrival before.” Heathcliff lifted his head, and his black eyes fixed on mine. “It’s not a new fictional character showing up. It’s Mina.”
“What about me?”
“This is all your fault. Ever since you answered my ad… in fact, ever since Mr. Simson told us to watch for you, things have been strange around here. Quoth can speak to you telepathically. The bedroom door flies open. Random books appear. Murder victims stack up.”
“I’ve had nothing to do with the murders, and I’m not doing anything! There’s something weird about the shop. Maybe there always has been. Now we know there’s been a bookshop here for nearly a thousand years, and that the previous owner kept a room of occult books and seems to have some fortune-telling powers, I wonder if this site is like the bookstore version of an Indian Burial Ground. It’s haunted by the spirits of books that have gone before.”
“That’s preposterous,” Heathcliff scoffed.
“Do you have a better explanation?” Morrie asked him.
“Of course I don’t.” Heathcliff threw up his hands. “Between the two of us, we’ve read every bloody book in that blasted occult room. There’s no explanation for what’s happening, no reference in any text to fictional characters coming back from the dead. Everything about wormholes comes from naff science fiction. There’s no reason for any of it.”
“All the mathematical simulations I’ve run show that this shop and its properties are a theoretical impossibility,” Morrie added. “If you have an idea for how we might be able to get some answers, we’d be intrigued to hear it.”
“Actually, I do.” I folded my arms and glared at each of them in turn. “I think all four of us should spend a night in the bedroom upstairs.”
TO BE CONTINUED
* * *
Every Who down in Who-ville likes Christmas a lot . . . but Heathcliff, the surly bookstore owner and fictional bad-boy, does NOT! Dive into the Nevermore holiday mystery – How Heathcliff Stole Christmas.
* * *
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Pride and Premeditation
“The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.”
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– Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Chapter One
“I have my doubts about the sagacity of this plan,” Morrie said as he hitched a pile of pillows under his arm.
“If your sagacity is so offended, you don’t have to come with us,” I reminded him, tying back my hair and smoothing down the front of my Snoopy pajamas. “You could go back downstairs and finish off that display I started for the Argleton Jane Austen Festival.”
“Don’t joke, gorgeous. This room has confounded me since I arrived in your world. I won’t be tying ribbons around frivolous books while the rest of you discern its secrets.” Morrie reached under my shirt and rolled my nipple between his fingers. “Besides which, the opportunity to spend the night with you should never be overlooked.”
“Jane Austen isn’t frivolous,” I shot back, grabbing his wrist and twisting it, so his hand slid off my nipple and I could think straight again. “You shouldn’t say things like that around Argleton right now. The whole village has gone Austen-mad.”
It was true. Ten years ago, a famous local scholar by the name of Julius Hathaway discovered a record of Jane Austen spending a Christmas at Baddesley Hall, the grandest of the grand stately homes overlooking Argleton, now owned by the Lachlans. Ever since the discovery of their famous temporary resident, the village has celebrated with an annual Regency Christmas festival that has grown ever more elaborate over the years. There were tea parties, dramatic readings, a costume promenade, and a Regency-style dance at the community hall, as well as a book drive where villagers donated reading materials to poor children.
This year, the Lachlans were even hosting the Jane Austen Experience – an academic conference and immersive event where guests paid hundreds of pounds to stay at Baddesley Hall for a weekend, dress up in silly costumes, attend fancy balls and tea parties, and go about proposing marriage to each other. This year, the famous scholar Professor Hathaway himself was the guest of honor.
Of course, Heathcliff wanted nothing to do with the Jane Austen Festival. He rebuffed all my clever ideas – hosting Professor Hathaway for a free public lecture in the World History room, putting together a Pride & Prejudice quiz night, dressing Quoth up in a tiny bird-sized bonnet (actually, Quoth was the one who vetoed that one). Heathcliff’s blatant lack of mercantile interest was probably why he’d suggested the eve of the festival to make good on my idea to spend the night in the magical room and attempt to discern its secrets.
“I’ll say what I please,” Morrie winked at me as he affected a posh accent. His hand slid beneath my shirt again. “You haven’t minded before.”
No, I don’t mind at all. Morrie’s lips fluttered along the edge of my neck. His hand cupped my breast, the fingers pinching and teasing my nipple. If this is any indication of what tonight might offer, the past better watch out—
“Out of the way, lovebirds,” Heathcliff bellowed from his bedroom. A moment later, an enormous brown duvet sailed through his doorway and slammed into the wall above our heads. I tore myself from Morrie’s embrace and leaped away as it slid to the floor to join the large pile of Heathcliff’s stuff already piled against the door.
He’s hoping we don’t emerge again until next week.
“We’d better take this elsewhere, in case Sir Pricklyton starts throwing his whisky bottles.” Morrie led me aside, his hand skimming the small of my back in a possessive way that made my heart flutter.
Morrie’s lips had barely grazed mine when we were interrupted again. Quoth clattered down from his attic room with his gear. As usual, he wore the minimum amount of clothes – in this case, a pair of black boxers that left nothing to the imagination. I wet my bottom lip. How was I going to survive the night with all three of them without things devolving into a Bacchanalian orgy?
Why did the thought of a Bacchanalian orgy with the three of them make heat pool between my legs?
Remember why we’re doing this. Don’t get distracted by Quoth’s beautiful eyes or Heathcliff’s strong hands or Morrie’s wandering tongue—
“This is all I need.” Quoth handed me a bag of berries. I tucked it into my emergency snacks.
“You sure we should bring along all this gear?” Morrie frowned at the tote bags I’d stuffed with dehydrated food, a camping stove, water bottles, emergency flares, and boxes of tampons. Heathcliff wasn’t the only one in Girl Scout mode. “It’s not very conspicuous, or very historical.”
“There’s no telling what we’re going to encounter on the other side and how long it’s going to take us to get the door open again into the present day. I want to be prepared for anything.”
“Agreed.” Heathcliff stumbled out of his room. Under one arm, he carried three bottles of whisky and a package of Wagon Wheels. Under the other, a long, pointed sword with an elaborate hilt.
“What are you going to do with that thing?” Morrie frowned at the sword.
“Roast marshmallows,” Heathcliff grunted. He shoved his bottles into my bag, tucked the sword into a scabbard on his belt, and pulled out his key. “Are we doing this or not?”
I nodded. We needed answers, and the only way to find them was to unravel the secrets of Nevermore Bookshop, starting with the room that traveled through time… or something.
Morrie smoothed down the collar of his Armani pajamas. “Which room do you think we’ll see on the other side? I propose a wager – the loser has to clean the bathroom. I’m hoping for a Regency boudoir, complete with Edward VII’s infamous Le Chabanais sex chair.”
“I vote the empty attic,” Heathcliff said.
“Of course you do.”
“I want Herman Strepel’s offices,” I added. “But I’m not participating in this bet, because there is no way in Hades you’re getting me to even step foot in that bathroom.”
“I’m hoping for dinosaurs,” Quoth added.
“You’re hoping for dinosaurs? You’re an idiot. Good thing Heathcliff has his sword.” Morrie grabbed the key from Heathcliff and shoved it in the lock. I blanched at his insult, although Quoth didn’t seem to care. The last couple of weeks, Morrie’s comments to all of us – usually friendly teasing – had become more barbed. It was as if he wanted to keep reassuring all of us he didn’t really care about us, that he thought himself superior in every way. It was starting to wear me down a little, especially when he did it to Quoth, who never snapped back and seemed to internalize every comment.
The door turned with an ominous click. Morrie stepped back and gestured to the door. “After you, gorgeous. This was your clever idea.”
Yes, it was. And if it gets us closer to figuring out what’s happening in this shop, you’ll be thanking me.
I sucked in a breath and pushed the door open.
Chapter Two
The door swung open, revealing an elegant four-poster bed bedecked in rich fabrics and a lounge suite covered in white dropcloths, like ghosts lounging in the window. Heavy velvet drapes hung from every curtain rod, and through an open door on the other side of the bed I made out the edge of the claw-foot bath in the center of the octagonal bathroom. It was the bedroom I’d seen when I first entered this room over a month ago, before I knew what the room really did.
“Phew,” I let out my breath. “At least we got a decent bed.”
“And no dinosaurs.” Heathcliff stalked around the room, using the tip of his sword to lift the drapes and check under the chairs.
“It doesn’t look as though robot overlords have taken over the world yet,” Morrie said, peeling back the velvet drapes to peer out the window.
“The windows still give us a view of the present day, remember?” Satisfied no velociraptors were hiding under the bed, Heathcliff leant his sword up against the wall. “It’s only inside this room where we exist out of time.”
“I knew that. I’m not stupid,” Morrie snapped. “I judge us to be in the late Victorian era, based on the weave of these drapes.”
“Well, aren’t we an expert on soft furnishings,” I smirked as I went to hel
p Quoth drag our supplies through the door. Morrie was already on my nerves, and the good sensations he’d created in my body while we were waiting for the others had faded completely.
“Meeeow!” As I lifted Heathcliff’s duvet, a bundle of black fur bolted out from underneath and dashed between my legs.
“No, kitty!’ I spun around in time to see Grimalkin throw herself at Heathcliff’s trousers, sinking her claws into his thigh. He roared and grabbed her by the scruff of her neck, hauling her off. RIIIIP. Ribbons of his trousers came away with Grimalkin’s claws, and probably a not insignificant amount of flesh as well.
I raced across the room and grabbed Grimalkin. She swung her paws in the air, trying to fight me. “We’re not putting you in danger. Out you go.” I turned to place her back outside, but as I took a step toward the door, it slammed shut.
‘Meow!” Grimalkin exclaimed in triumph.
Quoth grabbed the knob and tugged. “It’s stuck fast. We’re not getting out of here.”
“All our emergency dinosaur supplies are still on the other side,” Morrie pointed out helpfully.
“And my Scotch,” Heathcliff grunted.
I cradled Grimalkin to my chest. “You silly cat. We put out several days of food for you downstairs. I didn’t even pack so much as a morsel of fish for you.”
Grimalkin purred and nuzzled my cheek, apparently unconcerned about the lack of cat food in our immediate vicinity.
I set Grimalkin down on the windowsill. Outside, the village in the present day wound down for the night. The only people in the streets were stumbling home from the pub. The pale orb of the waxing moon glowed like a streetlight over the thatched roofs and Tudor buildings. Across the street, I could make out a square of light at Mrs. Ellis’ window. I hoped she was doing okay. It had been only a few weeks since her close friend Gladys Scarlett had been killed, and her cousin Brenda Winstone was now awaiting trial for murder. Given Brenda’s state-of-mind, I suspected she’d end up in psychiatric care rather than prison.
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