Silence extended between them, broken only by the distant hum of the customers below and the soft patter of rain against the windows. Charlie sat back against the leather of her chair. She suddenly felt uneasy, as if Irene’s words had stirred feelings inside her that she’d rather not look at too closely.
“I see,” she said slowly. “Then where exactly am I meant to be?”
Irene shrugged, her gaze turning towards the rain-streaked window. “That, lass, is for ye to discover. I am only here to show ye the way.”
Charlie crossed her arms over her chest. This wasn’t exactly how she’d envisioned spending her afternoon—talking in riddles with an elderly woman in a bookshop.
Irene’s dark gaze fixed on her. All her earlier good cheer had vanished and now she leaned forward, her eyes as dark and consuming as the rain clouds outside.
“Ye have a choice coming, my dear,” she said. “A choice that will decide the story ye write. Will it be one of dissatisfaction and loss or one of courage and hope? Will ye stay on this path, the one of cynicism and loneliness, or will ye take a chance and walk the path that will lead ye to the one who will help ye open yer heart and heal? Yer choice will soon be here. Choose wisely, my dear.”
With that, she leaned over and patted Charlie’s knee before heaving herself to her feet.
“Oh my,” she said, glancing at the rain lashing the windows. “I really must be going. Poor Baxter willnae be happy I made him wait outside. He so hates the rain.”
Charlie had no idea who this Baxter was, and Irene didn’t bother to explain. Giving Charlie a beaming smile that dimpled her cheeks and made her look years younger, she turned and shuffled away, soon disappearing amongst the bookcases.
Charlie sat in silence, watching her go. What had that all been about? Just her rotten luck to be accosted by a batty old woman in a bookshop! And what had Irene meant about choices? Charlie scoffed inwardly. The only choice she’d have to make today was whether to order pizza or curry for dinner.
She glanced at the book she still held in her hands, and Irene’s words echoed in her mind.Yer own story, lass. Not someone else’s that ye read about in a book.
With a sigh, she reached up, put the book back on the shelf above her head, and stood up. She suddenly felt a need to be moving, to get away from this particular corner of the bookshop and its disquieting thoughts.
She wandered aimlessly through the rows of bookcases, her hand trailing against the spines of books as she passed them. The smell of old paper and dust filled her nostrils and, under normal circumstances, would have soothed her. Today, though, it did nothing to quell the unease that gnawed at her. As she walked, she tried to shake off Irene’s words. They were just the ramblings of an eccentric old woman. They didn’t mean anything. Did they?
She wasnotcynical and lonely. She wasrealistic. Experience had taught her that there was no such thing as a happy ending. After all, she’d always taken her relationships seriously, hadn’t she? Done stupid things like plan for the future? But that future had never materialized and she’d been left heartbroken more times than she cared to remember. So excuse her if she wasn’t about to let a batty old woman lecture her about love!
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the bookshop had grown quiet, the steady hum of people browsing and talking having slowly faded away. Then the lights suddenly went out and the sound of the bell above the door startled her out of her thoughts. She glanced at her watch.
Five O’clock. Closing time.
“Shit!” Charlie ran to the railing that overlooked the shop’s central atrium and shouted, “Hang on! I’m still up here!”
There was no response except the sound of a key turning in a lock.
“Wait!” Charlie shouted. “Don’t lock me in!”
Panic surged through her as she heard the faint click of the lock echo through the empty shop. She dashed towards the nearest staircase and took two steps at a time, skidding on the smooth wooden steps in her haste.
She reached a lower level only to find herself facing more aisles of books. She hurried through them, expecting to find the staircase leading down to the ground floor. Instead, she found herself facing a wall lined with books on ancient history and mythology. She swore, spun on her heel, and hurried off in another direction. The place was a warren, and her stomach sank as she realized that she was lost within this literary maze.
Oh well done, Charlie!she admonished herself.Getting locked in a bookshop. This really takes the biscuit!
She turned down another aisle and nearly collided with a large leather armchair. Cursing softly under her breath, she skirted around it and sped down the row, her eyes flickering over the titles of books as she passed—The Great Gatsby,To Kill a Mockingbird—classics that she’d read and loved. But they offered no comfort now.
She clattered to a halt as she heard something. Music. It was faint at first, barely audible, but as she came to a stop, it became clearer. It sounded like a three-piece string quartet. And overlaid atop it, Charlie could hear the sounds of murmured conversation and the clinking of glasses.
She cocked her head, trying to determine the direction of the sound. It seemed to be coming from her right. With renewed hope, she followed the melody until she found another staircase, which she quickly descended. It led to an open doorway that was wide and arched into a point like the doorway of a church. It was from beyond the door that the music was coming. This was not the front door that led out into the street, but an internal door. Perhaps it led to the owner’s private apartment?
“Um, hello?” she shouted. “Anyone there?”
No answer. Charlie squinted, trying to see what lay beyond, but the view was obscured by a strange shimmer that filled the air like heat haze. Perhaps there was some sort of heating duct above the door, but it meant Charlie could see nothing but the vaguest outline beyond.
She stepped closer to the door. Warmth washed over her skin and something like electricity ran up her arms. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
For a reason she couldn’t quite name, she suddenly thought of what Irene MacAskill had said.Ye are far from where ye are meant to be, and drifting further every day the more ye close yer heart. But it isnae too late to change course and find yer path again.
She took another step. From beyond, the sound of music and laughter grew louder and she felt herself drawn to it, despite the odd sense of disquiet that murmured in the back of her mind.
