Roddy is looking at me calmly. He does the books for the shop, so maybe he knows about her personal finances too. ‘Has she really got that kind of money?’
He shrugs but there is the hint of a smile. ‘Client confidentiality. But … she’s not short of a penny.’
Sienna appears in the doorway. ‘Finished.’ She looks down into the corner where there is a raised lintel, and behind it, a padlocked trapdoor. ‘What’s down there?’
‘Just old files.’ According to Phyllida there’s an underground room beneath the floor, which she thought might have originally been for cool storage or to protect grain from pests. It’s dark and has a low ceiling and no natural light.
‘Can I look?’ asks Sienna.
‘I don’t have the key.’
‘Is it creepy down there?’
‘Don’t know. I’ve never been down there.’ I’m somewhat claustrophobic so the idea of exploring below ground has never appealed to me. Also there has never been a need, as all it supposedly houses are Phyllida’s old tax returns and part of her personal book collection about Celtic myths and legends. Anything to do with witchcraft and healers and shapeshifters is completely up my grandmother’s alley.
‘Seriously?’ Sienna screws up her face in disbelief. ‘It might be full of underground graves. Like the catacombs in France.’ Her face lights up. ‘It could lead to underground tunnels. That would besocool.’
‘Very unlikely,’ says Roddy, saving me from thinking of an appropriately non-morbid response. ‘They dug the catacombs in Europe because the cities were full. They were never short on burial spaces around here.’
Sienna regards the trapdoor again then rubs her nose as if she has an itch. ‘What’s next?’
‘Broom is in the back room,’ I say. ‘Dustpan’s under the sink.’
‘Vacuuming would be easier,’ she says.
‘Vacuum cleaners don’t like the flagstones. Plus, it’s noisy. We like quiet in bookshops.’
Roddy raises his hand. ‘I’ll head off, Sienna. Text me if your shift finishes before your mum can come and get you. You might need to borrow Lottie’s charger for your phone.’ He turns to me. ‘I have to go to Mary’s place to sort out her computer. She’s fussing about her subscription to the home brew shop. Thinks they haven’t awarded her the loyalty points she’s owed.’
Mary is the queen-pin of our village; bossy, witty and outrageous, but with a heart of gold. She is utterly without airs or graces but somehow manages to have everyone’s respect.
‘I’m sure you’ll sort it.’
‘She suggested I move into her spare room. Free rent in exchange for computer fixes. If I don’t sort it, I’m in big trouble.’ He grins.
‘That’s high stakes, Roderick. Did you sell your place in Sydney yet?’ I know he’s been keen to buy his own place down here.
‘Decided not to worry about it for a while. My friend Riley is living in it. He’s moved his family to Sydney from Broken Hill for their kid’s leukaemia treatment.’ He shrugs. ‘They’re going to stay there until they get it sorted.’
Roddy has a three-bedroom apartment in Sydney’s swanky Rose Bay. It would rent for a fortune, though he’s probably not even charging them rent. Mary’s always saying he’s a pushover and tutting in mock disapproval, but there’s also an undertone of pride.
Sienna appears from the back room. ‘Roddy doesn’t need to move now that he got air conditioning installed in our flat. Mum cried because she says it’s added so much value and she never could have afforded it.’
Roddy fingers a book on the display shelf, embarrassed. He picks it up to divert the conversation and I have a warped sense of time splitting as I look at the faded cover. I am suddenly back with Phyllida on the day she bought another copy of that book at auction.Highland Superstitionsby Alexander McGregor. The perfect book for Phyllida’s collection on Celtic mythology.
I remember Phyllida frowning and saying, ‘My grandmother had a copy of this book.’ Then she picked it up reverently, turning the pages, completely absorbed. It was my first auction and I felt awkward and overwhelmed by the buzz of conversations among the book dealers—many of whom appeared to be old friends enjoying a catch-up. But Phyllida had become oblivious to all of it, and suddenly she was staring past my shoulder, her face strangely pale. I followed her gaze. Outside the window, a crow had landed on the sill. Phyllida was in a kind of trance and it had frightened me. I remember putting my hand on her shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’
‘The veil between the worlds is thin.’ She nodded at the crow. ‘The Morrigan is here.’
‘Why do you say that?’ She had mentioned the Morrigan enough times during my childhood for me to be worried. The Morrigan was the Celtic goddess of death, war and fate; a shapeshifter who heralded doom or change, and appealed to Phyllida’s interest in all things witchy. It was odd to think of the things I had learned from my university-educated and perfectly mannered British grandmother. She had always enjoyed telling stories from ancient times—tales of the unexplained, legends of female warriors and those who worshipped the earth and the seasons. That day at the auction, I waited, but shedidn’t answer me. She was in her own world, staring at the crow, then back around at the men and women in the crowded room, as if looking for someone.
I touched the book in her hands. ‘Your grandmother owned this? Tell me more about her.’ She returned to herself then, her eyes twinkling as she gave a small tip of her head.
‘You never talk about your family,’ I persisted. ‘Was your grandmother in England?’
Phyllida regarded me with a gentle smile then walked to the front of the room where people were now taking their seats. Eventually she said, ‘She was … Scottish. But her mother was Irish.’ We took seats near the auctioneer. ‘We must have that book,’ she whispered. ‘The crow was our sign. For that and more.’
‘Have you read it?’ I asked.
