I see his point.
On the third day, we take the train to Canterbury. I text Chloe a photo of the cathedral. For centuries, pilgrims came here seeking health, peace, war, or love. Like me, they probably didn’t even know exactly what they sought. Canterbury Cathedral just seems like the logical place to be when unraveling a very tight knot. I can’t take my eyes off the indentations in the altar’s stone steps from countless pilgrims who found themselves kneeling here since the twelfth century.
Heathcliff found Canterbury more to his liking than Westminster Abbey. We had a lively tour guide who dramatically retold the gruesome murder of Thomas Becket and how one knight stirred the archbishop’s brains with his sword. Heathcliff was delighted when I bought him some miniature knight figurines from the cathedral gift shop on our way out.
I decide to grab an early dinner before taking the train back to London. We slide into the pub booth, and Heathcliff spreads the little knights out on the table. I’m just looking at the menu when August texts me.
Hullo Elizabeth! Sorry for the delay. I’ve had a helluva few days on an Inspector Hall deadline! If you’re still interested, I would love to take you out for a drink at the Hotel Café Royal. (I’m sure you of all people knowwhat a literary gem it is!) Anyway, let me know if you’re interested, and I can meet you there around 3:00 Friday.
My heartbeat picks up as I stare at the text. I half-expected not to hear from dashing August again. I’m not even pissed that he’s calling me by Elizabeth even though that usually drives menuts. Dansworth gets a pass since he’s British and charming.
I privately acknowledge that meeting a handsome man at a café within the same year that my husband has passed away goes beyond riding alone with him in a carriage or flashing him my ankle. I can’t go. It’s too improper. Realizing I’m dangerously close to rejecting this intriguing man, I go ahead and respond before overthinking it.
Sure thing, August! I’ll see you then!
“Who ya’ texting?” Heathcliff asks, as his plastic knights battle it out.
“No one.” Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I’m not doing anything wrong, right? Why do I feel so funny about this?
By the time we get back on the train, I realize how exhausted I am. My feet ache inside my black walking shoes. It’s been a wonderful but very busy three days. Heathcliff falls asleep pretty quickly on the ride home. I’m looking forward to a couple of quieter days at the row house with time spent reading and sipping cups of hot tea.
Pretty soon, like Heathcliff, I fall asleep. I’m in the Azalea Dream’s sprawling backyard practicing archery with Mirabel. We’re in a clearing behind the gardens; it’s an ideal summer day—a gentle breeze rippling through the pines, bluebirds clustering around her wooden feeders. A little iron-wrought stand with a glass pitcher of lemonade and glasses rests between us.
I shoot first, my arrow bouncing off the edge of the canvas target.
“Drat!” I mutter lightly.
Mirabel, under the shade of her giant, yellow-bowed sun hat, nocks her arrow.
“I hope your aim’s better than mine,” I say, pouring myself a glass of lemonade.
“Most definitely.”
I glance up to see her smiling maniacally, her arrow pointed straight at me.
I wake up with a jolt, Heathcliff still asleep on my shoulder.
Yikes. Mirabel aiming an arrow straight at me on a sunny day has to be one of the scariest nightmares I’ve had in my life. Just under the one where I’m giving my dissertation defense in my underwear. I shake my head, take a few deep breaths, and check my phone. We’re about twenty minutes from London.
There’s also a cheery text from August:Excellent! I’ll see you then!
Hmmm. Well, I suppose I’m meeting A.D. Hemmings at the glamorous Café Royal on Friday afternoon for drinks.
FromBlood Ties:
Hall downs two pints within half an hour. The pub’s growing crowded as uni students start pouring in. But he’s not about to give up his large booth. He needs space and drink right now. He orders another pint.
Why is he always messing up with women? He didn’t even see that his own bloody partner, Wren, had been the Cardiff Strangler the entire time. And Penny Bledsoe is fit, with her long blond locks and silk stockings—she’s bewitching him. But it’s at that critical point where she wants more. Sure, she ignites him in the bedroom. But inher longing dark eyes, he sees her need. He takes a slow draw of his diminishing third pint and grimaces.
She wants a relationship.
He signals the server for another drink.
Love never goes smoothly for him. Will it always be about the hunt? Why does it have to be so fucking complicated all the time? He’s after the Copycat now. Maybe it’s just in his blood to pursue women like he pursues criminals and then not know what to do with himself when the chase is up...
He sighs. He’s starting to feel a little pissed. Good. He heads to the loo.
When he returns to the table, there’s a fresh amber pint waiting.
