“Oh, wonderful!” Sarah says quickly as she greets her old housekeeper warmly. As usual, she sounds like she’s hurrying on her way to catch a meeting or a flight or an Uber. “So, I’m trying to catch a quick flight to Dublin for a conference, but it’s all good news. We have an offer on a sequel and film rights.”
Ms. Fernsby claps her hands in the air before pulling me into a tight hug. “Oh, I knew it! Iknew it!This calls for somebubbly! I bought this last week just knowing something exciting was coming!” She scurries over to the fridge for the bottle.
“Yes, drink up and celebrate!” Sarah exclaims over the phone. She quickly gives me the basic offer details and tells me we’d be crazy to turn them down. “But let’s meet as soon as I get back, Lizzie. There are some requests that I want to make sure you’re okay with before we agree. You’re the creator, and you need to be happy with it all.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Wonderful! My shuttle is here, but more soon, you fabulous author!”
Beaming, Ms. Fernsby pops the cork and pours champagne into two vintage blush-colored coupe glasses. We lightly clink glasses and take a celebratory sip before I wash my hands and help her with the pie.
By evening, after indulging in a large portion of Ms. Fernsby’s cottage pie, along with steamed vegetables and two glasses of champagne, I tuck Heathcliff into bed and slip my pajamas on early. The good meal and long Kensington Park playtime must have made him sleepy because he’s snoring within ten minutes.
I curl up in my bedroom’s sitting area with Lucy to readBlood Ties. I’m deep into the book now, and the suspect’s sister, Penny Bledsoe, stays on as Chadwick Hall’s love interest. But he’s hot on the heels of the Copycat Strangler, and I’m sensing an Indiana Jones archetype here—during the masculine, adrenaline-fueled chase, he’s tired of being romantically tied to one woman. So cliché and misogynistic, yet here I am page-turning. Damn you, August Dansworth.
My phone dings with a screenshot from Chloe of a toy wooden maze with little metal balls that roll around.
Chloe:Hey! Thought I’d send you something more priest-appropriate than trashy book recs and wine?I just can’t stop thinking of you as I’m playing around on this tonight. Remember the importance of labyrinths! Blessings, friend.
I smile. Chloeloveslabyrinths. Last year, for her sabbatical, she studied spiritual mindfulness practices in Tibet, concentrating on monastic garden patterns and sand labyrinths. Upon coming home, she created one in our church garden. She personally maintains the boxwood shrub hedges, ensuring weeds and overgrowth don’t mar the overall shape.
When she returned from Tibet, she had told me:It’s about uncertainties. You walk the path, trying to find the center. Youhave totrust the path. You walk purposely without knowing exactly where you are going. You hit dead ends and twists, but you just keep moving forward.
Me:Thank you, Chloe. I needed this reminder.
I pause, wondering if I should tell her about Dansworth. Oh, why not?
Me:I met the real A.D. Hemmings yesterday in the British Museum.
Chloe:No way! Are you serious?
Me:Yes! It was surreal.
I linger over the phone, wondering if I should tell her he suggested meeting up again. I really can’t tell anyone this now.Besides, I likely won’t hear from him again. As a Victorian widow, I’m supposed to dothisin the evenings—curl up and read with a cat on my lap. I decide to frame it as if it was only a brief fangirl encounter.
@ADHemmings *selfie having a shot with Brad Pitt*:
Just celebrating withBrad Fucking Pittas we wrap up filming. Sometimes I still pinch myself. #authorlife #goals
11
Heathcliff and I spend the next three days sightseeing.
For some reason, Chloe’s labyrinth text inspired me to explore ancient religious sites. With my widow’s fashion and attempt to find my way in my post-Philip world, I suppose I’m on a pilgrimage. To my knowledge, there aren’t any sacred labyrinths around me, so walking about a church gallery seems to be the next best thing.
First, we tour Westminster Abbey. Heathcliff is rather underwhelmed by the arches and stained glass. “This is BORING. Are we going to be in here FOREVER?”But he does perk up when I show him the coronation chair and explain that everyone has to sit in it when they become king or queen.
“Did the Joker ever try to bomb it?”
“Not to my knowledge. Some suffragettes did once.”
“Do they work for the Joker?”
“No.” I almost pee my pants giggling. “They were women who stirred up trouble so they could vote.”
“Oh.”
The next day, we take the train to Stonehenge. The sun and wind beat down on the Salisbury Plain. A strong breeze ripples the grasses, but not enough to drown out the surrounding native starlings’ songs. Fortunately, there are plenty of places here for Heathcliff to run about and no stuffy museum guards to glare at me. I tell Heathcliff a bit about the history, that this was a sort ofveryold church. Heathcliff asks why we can’t go to a “church like this” where we can run around “old giant stones.”
