I miss Black Crag’s creepy, gothic beauty.
I miss Reginald’s hot chocolate.
I miss Mirabelle’s mischievous nature and mouse-catching abilities.
I miss Alaric. I might’ve mentioned that.
I missmyself.
I don’t know who I am anymore. I’m not the same person who left on that train to Argleton, but I don’t recognise this new Winnie, either. She’s like a stained glass window that’s been smashed to pieces and put back together by a stoned squirrel.
Clack-clack-clackity-clack-clack.
Inside the walls of this motel room, I’ve lost Winnie. Every day when I come home from work there are more Savemartboxes and piles of random papers. The cleaning staff complained to management about the state of our room, so on top of everything else I now have to try and sneak her stuff out so we don’t lose the room.
Mum switches to the Home Shopping channel. I dab my eyes several times until I’m calm enough to move, then smooth down my outfit and exit the bathroom.
“I have to go to a job.”
“What about your tea? You left it on the tallboy.”
“You have it.” I square my shoulders and plaster a smile on my face. “I don’t need tea. I’m fuelled by my torn cuticles and feminine rage.”
I dash outside before she can waylay me to read her memoir. While I wait for my Uber, I pull up my bank account app and stare at the number, wishing it was bigger. I’ve been working ten hours a day, taking on as many Clutter Queens jobs as I can fit in (which is all of the jobs, since Faye is busy with the TV show). I’m trying to save enough money to get Mum into a flat of her own so I don’t have to listen to typewriter keys pounding in my skull.
At least the work keeps me occupied; it keeps me from thinking abouthim.
Because when I think too much, I start to wonder if maybe we could have found a way through the gulf that divides us. I begin to ask myself if my trauma made me overreact to his secret room, or if my visceral reaction to the idea of the Kiss is more about my fear of committing to someone who might let me down. I bet that’s what Harudha would say if I could still afford to see her.
But then I’ll remember that Alaricdidlet me down, and he was supposed to be the one thing in the world that was safe.
And the worst part is, I can’t even talk to the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven about it all.
At first, the girls sent me nearly daily updates from Argleton. But after I didn’t answer them, they slowly stopped texting. Last week they removed me from the group chat.
That stung, but it’s for the best. They were a fun part of my life for a while, but my world is Mum and insurancecompanies and trying to save my business relationship. I can’t be distracted by supernatural shenanigans and book clubs. It’s not as if I have any time to read anymore, and I shouldn’t be thinking about …
I bet Alaric went to Europe with Perdita. Is Black Crag falling into disrepair with him gone? Does Reginald live there by himself? I imagine he’s keeping the silver polished and Mirabelle fed until Alaric and his beautiful vampire wife return next summer to enjoy hosting balls and swimming in the grotto …
No.I jam my fists into my eyes. Don’t torture yourself.
Alaric isn’t mine. He never was.
This was always how it was supposed to be.
When I arrive at the new client’s Belgravia house, I suck in an awed breath. Even by Clutter Queens standards, this house is hella posh. All of the fancy windows appear mirrored, throwing back reflections of the tidy street. I wonder briefly if Patrick might have installed them. His company made bespoke windows and he worked on several old houses in this neighbourhood. I shove the thought away.
I check for mouse droppings or cereal crumbs on my coat, smooth down my hair as best I can, and reach for the bell.
“Oh, thank the gods. I was terrified you wouldn’t show.” A woman throws open the door before I ring. She tugs a black veil down over her face like a sinister Victorian widow. Her comically large beaded earrings make a tinkling sound as she darts forward. “Come in quickly. I have to get out of the sun.”
She’s a vampire.
I don’t know what gives away her secret. Perhaps it’s the alabaster pallor of her skin beneath the veil or the excruciating beauty of her voluptuous figure. Possibly it’s the ancient tilt of her eyes, as if she has seen through eons and has too many stories to tell. But when she wraps her long fingers around my arm to drag me inside, and I feel the coolness of her undead skin, Iknow that I’m right.
She slams the door behind me. Inside, the house is bright, even though the windows are so dark they are practically blacked out. Expertly placed lighting illuminates large pieces of modern artwork against crisp white walls. The old Victorian house has been gutted and reimagined as a modern open plan space – architectural features like ornate cornices and plaster details sharing space with a dazzling floating glass staircase and steel industrial design. Every space has been tastefully adorned with designer furniture and yet more artwork.
“You must be Winnie. I’m Viviana. Welcome to my home.” Viviana sweeps her arm dramatically around. “I’m told that you have a way with people like me, that you can help us to celebrate the life we have lived while enabling us to let go of what we no longer need to carry.”
