Me:I promise.
Chloe:?And don’t forget about the labyrinth. Trust the path, friend.
I smile, send her a few selfies of me and Heathcliff from the park the other day, and ask her about baby Asher. I sip my coffee—I have a full day planned with Heathcliff, and Ms. Fernsby says her “friend” can meet with us this evening.
Over my second cup of coffee, I let out a breath of gratitude. Between Henry and Chloe and my department chair, Patrick, I have so many good friends supporting me from abroad.
After a full day of chasing Heathcliff, I collapse onto the parlor couch the second we walk through the door.
Why had I thought bringing him to the National Portrait Gallery was a good idea? He constantly wondered why “nobody smiles in their picture,” and he said their ruffled outfits looked “stupid.” By noon, I gave up and just let him run like a wild thing around a pocket park playground. Then we did some shopping, and I spent too much money on him for souvenirs, including a British edition ofHarry Potter.We’ll start reading a chapter every night because I’m not about to raise a Muggle.
I’m relaxing with some lavender tea andBlood Ties, my sore feet up on the parlor coffee table,when August texts me to see if I want to go on a Jack the Ripper tour tomorrow evening. I shush my Victorian widow’s brain as I text back agreeing to go. She whispers advice in my ear like a fusty great-aunt, and sometimes I just really want to ignore her.
I’m flattered by August’s continuing attention, but I do wonder why he likes me. Maybe it’s just our writer’s connection. Or maybe there’s just a strange novelty to cheering up a weepy widow.
I can’t think too much about all the whysof our friendship. Instead, I drum my fingers on my teacup, scouring my mind for something else to worry about. Mirabel is of course at the top of the list.
It’s been a few days since I’ve heard from her. I wonder if Henry’s getting anywhere with the subpoenas and how long they take. I grip my teacup more tightly, as I’m suddenly nervous about what Steel Magnolia hurricane might be brewing in South Carolina.
I can’t stop thinking about Mirabel sitting in that chair with a big sun hat, cigarette clenched between her teeth, pistol poised to shoot another groundhog. She doesn’t give up. She’s fiercely guarding a piece of her past, and she’s a fighter.
I hope Henry knows what he’s dealing with.
By evening, I’m riding in an Uber with Ms. Fernsby toward Peckham to meet her friend.
Ms. Fernsby looks very cute with peach lipstick and a little red cap on her head. She’s excited, speaking breathlessly and fidgeting with her floral-patterned purse during the ride. “Now, Darcie’s lived in this neighborhood for three decades. It was quite dodgy for a good while, but now these young people moved in with their expensive coffees and little toy dogs and wine bars.”
After passing a string of the pricey wine bars, we’re dropped off near a tall, very old row house covered in ivy.
“She’s a bit eccentric,” Ms. Fernsby whispers, opening a low wrought iron gate for me, “but she can help you now.”
“How?”
“You’ll see what I mean.”
Darcie opens the door and briskly kisses Ms. Fernsby on the cheek.
She’s a short, heavyset woman in a drapey floral dress withblack boots, hair dyed an unnatural but interesting shade of red. Very Raggedy Ann. About Ms. Fernsby’s age, she looks like an eccentric great-aunt.
Darcie takes my hands in hers, but not in a kindly manner. She maintains her grip while scrutinizing me over tortoiseshell readers. She says nothing while I mutter an awkward greeting, squirming under her gaze.
Ms. Fernsby and I follow her into a drawing room worthy of any Anthony Trollope novel. A large, quirky antique chandelier hangs from the ceiling. Dark mahogany bookshelves line the walls. Leafy William Morris wallpaper patterns cover every square inch of exposed wall, and I count no less than five senior cats lounging about the room. Darcie shoos them off the furniture before Ms. Fernsby and I sit down. One glares and hisses at me as Darcie leaves the room.
She returns soon with a slightly tarnished silver tray of brandies and hands us each a snifter.
“Now, Annabel told me nothing about you, Lizzie, except that you’re a widow.”
“That’s correct,” Ms. Fernsby says. “And I’ve told her nothing ofyou, Darcie.”
“Oh!” Darcie smiles proudly, settling back in her creaky chair and pushing her glasses farther up on her nose. She takes a sip from her snifter. As I take a sip from mine, I notice it’s antique Waterford. I’d doubt anything in this room is less than one hundred years old, including, maybe, the persnickety cats.
“Byday, I input data for the National Health Service. But Ms. Fernsby brought you here because I have a gift for communicating with the dead.”
“I don’t understand. You’re a psychic?”
“I never advertise it. I’m not one of those tarts you pay by the hour. I never take money. It’s only a gift I offer some of my friends for closure or peace or whatever it is they need.”
“And she’s thereal thing,” Ms. Fernsby says, leaning over to me. She smells like lavender powder and brandy. “Last time she summoned my grandmother Doris here and we heard things that no one except family could have known. She even knew about Uncle Christopher’s syphilis infection. Wenevertalked about that.”
