“We don’t know,” Morrie shrugged. “I’ve directed a considerable amount of energy toward solving the puzzle of it, but so far to no avail. All I can tell you is that the most likely responsible party is Nevermore Bookshop itself.”
“How can abookshopbe responsible for this?”
“I need a proper drink,” Heathcliff declared, slamming his empty cup down on the tray.
Leaving my question hanging unanswered, Heathcliff dove into the kitchen and emerged with a dusty bottle of wine. He popped the cork and filled a glass, which he handed to me. He took a long, deep swig from the bottle.
“None of us remember how we got here,” he said, between gulps. “Last I recall, I alighted fromWuthering Heightsin a state of great agitation after overhearing Cathy planned to wed Linton. I’d stolen a bottle of Hindley’s finest whisky and I took this medicine as I ran, for I had lost myself to the futility of love. I stormed across the moors until the drink purged the rage from my bones, and I passed out in a puddle. I woke up on the floor in front of the Classic Literature section. Mr. ___ collected me and gave me some magical elixir to sober me up—”
“Gatorade,” Morrie supplied. “I keep telling you it’s not magical. You can buy it at the market for two quid.”
“Shut up for a moment,” Heathcliff swigged another gulp of wine. “Mr. ___ explained that the shop was cursed, and that he’d been expecting me for some time.”
“He … what?” I slumped down in Heathcliff’s chair, pressing my fingers to my temple.
“He said a few years after he purchased the building from its previous owner, the greek poet Sappho appeared on the shop floor, same as I was lying there now. He said he’d had a few others over the years, always from the Classical Literature shelves. He saw it his duty to help them find their way in the world as best he was able. He found Sappho a post as a weathergirl. Lady Macbeth runs a chippie up in Glasgow. Pip fromGreat Expectationsis a council planner in London, if you can believe it.”
I snorted.
“Mr. ___ said that’s why he kept the bookshop all these years. He needed to help them. He didn’t think anyone else would. And he wanted to figure out why we kept showing up. He wanted to break the curse before the shop brought back some truly heinous villain.” Heathcliff shot a look at Morrie, who grinned angelically. “That’s why he started Nevermore’s occult collection.”
“I’ve seen the occult shelves, behind the pet books,” I said. “It’s not exactly impressive. Just a bunch of flat earth conspiracies and new age rubbish.”
“You have seen the dime-a-dozen tarot books we leave on the shelves for the plebs,” Morrie said. “Mr. ___ kept all therealoccult books locked away under protection. He believed that in one of these books he’d find the secret of the shop’s magic.”
“Wait a second,” I stared at Heathcliff, starting to comprehend. “If I believe this story, which I’m not saying I do, you were pulled from your story as youleftWuthering Heights? You never came back?”
Heathcliff never became the cruel, twisted figure who haunted Wuthering Heights. He never went wherever he went in those mysterious three years that turned his heart to ice.
“And you?” I swirled to meet Morrie. James Moriarty, one of the more iconic villains in Victorian literature. “You never met Sherlock Holmes at Reichenbach Falls?”
Morrie shook his head. “I found myself placed in such a position through Holmes’ continual persecution that I was in danger of losing my liberty. The situation had become impossible, so I left England in my attempt to remain one step ahead of my foe. I fell asleep on the train to Geneva, and woke up here.”
“But what about you?” I asked Quoth. He shook his head.
“He’s different,” Heathcliff growled. “Mr. ___ never said anything about shapeshifters.”
“I have a theory that he might be both the raven and the poem’s anonymous narrator,” Morrie said. “Somehow, they were pulled from the poem as a single unit.”
“I remember little from my previous life.” Quoth stared at the ceiling as words tumbled out – a stream of rich, velvet vowels dripping with sadness. “This stands to reason since I came from a poem and not a book. I recall only a room filled with books and a sensation of time marching on without me, while I remained frozen in a memory that faded into nothingness, dragging some vital piece of me into the void along with it. Even now that memory haunts me, and my mind snatches at the visions as they grow ever dim. That is why I spend most of my time in my raven form.” Quoth pinched the skin on his thigh. “This human skin feels… awkward. Plus, these stupid things are a bit useless.” He flapped his arms.
My ears buzzed. It was such a wild tale, it couldn’t possibly be true. And yet… I’d seen Quoth’s feathers retract into his skin and a beak where his mouth should be.
“But I heard Quoth’s voice in the shop when the raven was around,” I said, my last weak protest.
“You did,” Morrie frowned. “And that’s highly irregular. In his raven form, Quoth can communicate telepathically, but only other fictional characters have ever been able to hear him. Until you. That’s why Heathcliff gave you the job.”
Is it?I remembered Quoth’s voice from my first meeting with Heathcliff, saying I was pretty, that I was ‘the one.’ Did he mean I was the perfect one for the job because I could hear him? He didn’t know that when he spoke.
Or is there something else?
“So why can I…”
“Yet another question we’re not yet able to answer, gorgeous.” Morrie patted my leg. “Let us clear your name of this murder first, and then perhaps between the four of us we can figure out the secrets of Nevermore Bookshop.”
“What about Grimalkin?” I asked, faintly.
“She’s just a cat,” Heathcliff said.
