“… the time-travel room would mean that the man who impregnated your mother could have come from any point in his own timeline,” Heathcliff finished my sentence for me. He’d been doing that a lot recently, as if his thoughts matched mine at every moment. It was a little freaky, but also wonderful.
“Meorw,” Grimalkin added, batting my nose.
“Exactly.” My mind raced as all the pieces slotted into place. “Perhaps my father came to this time as a younger man, and that’s how he seduced my mother. It would also explain why she never told me he was blind – if he had retinitis pigmentosa, then it might not have set in for him yet – and also why she didn’t recognize him when she’d come into the shop to collect me. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner, to be honest.”
“At least we figured it out before Morrie,” Heathcliff’s eyes sparkled with joy. “He’s going to bepissed.”
“Try not to look quite so gleeful when you tell him,” I teased. “While this is awesome, it doesn’t get us any closer to finding my father. Knowing what we now know, it more than likely he left the bookshop through the room upstairs, making it even less likely we’ll find him.”
My mind flashed to the note warning of danger, and to the words Victoria Bainbridge spoke to me last time I’d set foot inside the time-travel room. “The next time I see you, you’ll be covered in blood.”
But whose blood? Whose? My father’s? My own? One of the guys… please don’t let it be one of the guys.
“You’re thinking about the note again,” Heathcliff growled.
I nodded.
“And the blood.”
“Especially the blood.”
“Obviously, she meant the blood of your enemies.”
I snorted, mostly because Heathcliff had this fierce look on his face, like he really did believe I’d be walking around wearing my enemies blood. “I don’t think so, but that’s the problem. I don’tknow, and it’s driving me crazy. What if it’s your blood? What if it’s Morrie’s or Quoth’s or Mum’s or Jo’s or—”
“Allow me to relieve your mind of the burden.” With one shove of his thick hand, Heathcliff pushed the ledger off the desk, along with my list and all our mail and pens and stamps. Grimalkin howled and leapt out of the way as the book clattered to the floor. She gave Heathcliff a filthy look, turned on her elegant legs, and slunk away.
I’m never going to get anything done today if they keep… Oh, by Isis…
Heathcliff’s mouth met mine, hot with need. Fire raced through my veins I tugged on his collar, pulling him closer, molding our bodies together. My hip pressed into our ancient metal till as Heathcliff laid me down on the desk, his hands unlacing the drawstring in Jo’s trousers. Dark hunger blazed in his eyes, the kind of hunger that made women in books swoon.
“But I have so much work to do—”
My feeble protests were silenced as literature’s greatest gothic hero swept me into his arms and devoured me, body and heart and soul.
Chapter Four
“Thank you so much, Mina. We really appreciate you setting up this event for Danny.” Brian Letterman held my hand between his. A pair of sharp grey eyes sparkled as he took in the room.
“Thank you for agreeing to be my guinea pigs. I’m really excited about the potential for this space.” I beamed at the publisher as I surveyed my handiwork. We really had worked a miracle.
A week ago, I’d made the executive decision to permanently remove the bookshelves from the World History room and cram them into a small alcove at the back of the shop. Now the light, airy room with its pentagonal bay window was our new event space. I’d cleaned and repainted one wall antique white, and purchased a projector that could be used to show slides or movies against the wall. Quoth and I scoured every junk store in Argleton for enough mismatched chairs to create a small circle around the lectern. Morrie scoured The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named for product reviews, and based on the internet’s recommendations, put together a state-of-the-art sound system, which was at this moment pumping out subdued jazz as our guests filtered in.
Under the window was a buffet of locally-made cheese, crackers, Mrs. Ellis’ fruit preserves, and artisan salami. I’d even managed to convince Richard McGreer – the Rose & Wimple pub landlord who’d recently started a boutique cidery – to put on a small bar.
A display of Danny’s books stood by the door, mixed with a couple of Quoth’s artworks and some props I found in Morrie’s bedroom – a magnifying glass, some handcuffs (I had to tear off the black padded lining), and a long black silk scarf knotted around the stand. Danny’s latest book,The Somerset Strangler, featured a serial killer who garroted his victims. I hoped I’d got the message across without being too morbid.
Our guest list of local reporters, Barchester literati, and members of Danny’s fanclub milled around the room, spilling out into the main downstairs room of the bookshop, where they perused the shelves with an appreciative eye. I noticed a woman in the corner had already amassed an impressive stack of volumes on the counter for purchase.
We’re going to make a killing tonight.
It was just as well, because we needed all the cash we could get. All this effort wasn’t just to inject some life into the place – Heathcliff had finally let me look at his ledger. Things were more dire than I realized. Eight years ago, the roof had been damaged in a bad storm, and Mr Simson – who apparently didn’t believe in insurance – had taken out a mortgage on the shop to make the repairs. And that mortgage had been extended over the years as narrowing margins and the dominance of The-Store-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named cut into the shop’s already meagre profits. Heathcliff hadn’t helped matters – he ran the place the way all landed men of his era ran their estates – with a stubborn refusal to accept that changing times called for a fresh approach. We needed to sort out our mortgage arrears soon, or we’d really be in trouble.
After that, I needed cash to make serious improvements to the shop. If I was going to keep working here after I went blind, then I needed a way to distinguish the books apart when I could no longer see the titles. The absent Mr. Simson was no help – from what I could remember of my childhood, his system seemed to be that he presented people with completely random books and they just accepted them because to say something would be rude, and a British person would rather pay £48 quid for a book on the history of the London sewers than ask for what they actually wanted.
I’d been researching different options – braille labels would be most cost-effective, but an insane amount of work to implement. Plus, even though I’d already started trying to learn braille, it would take me a couple of years to become proficient. However, there was this neat electronic talking tagging system that I could control from my mobile…
“It’s great to see this bookshop living up to its potential,” Brian said. “I came here a year or so ago, trying to get the proprietor to stock my authors or run an event. He was quite rude. Told me to go shag a goat—”
