But right next to it is a tiny, miniature rope, fashioned like a noose.
The Copycat.
He takes a long sip, puts his hat on and stands to leave.
It’s a cat-and-mouse game now.
But he’ll be the bloody tomcat. Always.
Excerpt fromThe Heathcliff Saga:
“If you ask, me, Cathy, you’d do best to leave the both of them alone.”
Nelly narrows her eyes at Cathy while churning butter.
“But, Nelly, that’s impossible. Heathcliff stirs my blood, and Linwood...”
“Oh, that Linwood boy!” Nelly plunges the dasher violently through the lid. “He’s all charm, with his smooth, high cheekbones and gentleman’s clothes. He’s been mollycoddled his whole life, and it’s done ’im no good.”
“But he’s smart and handsome...”
“Andrich,” Nelly spats.
“I’m going out.”
“You’ve been going out a lot.”
Furious, Cathy looks away at the mince pie Nelly left to cool on the windowsill. Steam rises through the crust’s slits. Beyond the window, a sea of blooming heather ripples.
“On my way to the Grange, I saw ’im disappearing into Penistone Crags,” Nelly adds. “If he’s summoning the magic himself, it will be disastrous for us all.”
Cathy tightens her lips. “I’ve got it under control, Nelly.”
“Do ye, now? You don’t even have control over your own heart. This ’ere’s magic, luv. You don’t know what yer messing with.”
12
The next day is wonderfully slow.
We stay inside. I wear my black pajamas all day. I read tabloid news on my phone, checking in on Everett’s, Bella’s, and Harry’s social media pages. From the looks of it, they’ve been cavorting around London. I try to get caught up on their love lives. It looks like Everett and Bella are back together again. Harry has come out as gay and is dating a fellow hunky young actor in a new werewolf drama series. I search for August and find his handle—@ADHemmings: Writer, Sex God, Chadwick Hall’s Boss. But not in that order.(Fine. So he’s a little cheeky. Tomorrow afternoon should be interesting if nothing else.) It’s all mostly book news, teasers for the upcoming Netflix series, noir-filtered photos of his bar drinks. No women.
Guiltily, I leave his pages. I’m not actually breaking any rules. Victorian women didn’t even have Instagram. I’m doing nothing other than keeping tabs on a friend.
Henry texts me an image.
I open it.Oh my god.
It’s a fuzzy mug shot of a much younger Mirabel. It must be the early eighties from the looks of it. She has the heavy dark eye shadow and liner. Her now-coiffed blond hair was permed with four-inch-high puffed bangs sprayed heavily into shape. Best of all, though, is the workout headband, slipped down at an awkward angle. She’s scowling, shiny pink lipstick smeared as she holds up the ID card—weight 120 pounds. Those Jane Fonda workouts paid off.
Me:WTF!
Henry:Running into court. Four hearings in a row. Give you a call at 9:00 your time tonight? Got some serious shit-tea to spill.?
I keep staring at the mug shot, disbelieving. Did Philip know his mom had been arrested?
No, because he would have told me. What wouldMirabelhave done to end up in handcuffs? Steal from the Methodist Women’s League’s garden fund?
Heathcliff runs up behind me in a superhero cape, and I put down my phone before he can see his grandmama’s mug shot. We eat sandwiches in front of cartoons for a while before he goes up to his bedroom to play LEGO. I sit at the kitchen island sipping more coffee and watching Ms. Fernsby put together an apple mincemeat pie. She’s beaming with pride as she tells me about her daughter going back to school. Apparently, there’s still some funds left over in the education fund Lord Routledge set aside for Mabel.
