Chapter 3

3

MEV

“It’s absolutely beautiful,” Clara said as we walked away from the church.

I agreed wholeheartedly. But the feeling in the pit of my stomach distracted me from fully enjoying the beauty of York Minster. After two days of searching, we’d come up blank. Insisting on taking a break from our York pub crawl, we hit the Viking museum earlier and now the centerpiece of this amazing city. And it was beautiful, yet…

“Mev?”

I’d been staring at the ring again.

“Sorry,” I said, meeting Clara’s gaze. “I knew it was a long shot but…”

“But you were hopeful. We still have a few days. Don’t lose hope just yet.”

I wasn’t usually one for pity parties and liked to think positively, but it was getting hard to keep my hopes up. Mom had always said everything from the time she went into the pub to leaving it in the middle of the night was a blank, but how could she not remember going there in the first place? I supposed it was a trauma response, though I was no psychologist. “We’ve been to the oldest pubs and every single building in the Shambles. I don’t even know where to try next.”

Clara pulled out the map from our hotel. I couldn’t resist a smile. “Look at you, old school.”

“I like this thing better than my phone.” She lifted it up for me to see. “Look at the cute little pictures.”

Clara was trying to cheer me up, and it was working. “I saw them. Very cute.”

With her head back in the map, I thought about the strategy the museum director and I came up with. He was the one that identified the building in the photo as a tavern, courtesy of the few words we could make out on the glass window and my boss being an expert in European architecture. That’s when I decided to come here, to find answers for myself.

I hated lying to her. Mom thought I was in Italy, accompanying Clara for work. Something told me that if I’d admitted we were coming to England, to York, she’d have tried to talk me out of it. And my mother could be very convincing… almost as convincing as I was determined to get to the bottom of her time in England.

“So maybe we grid it,” I said, “starting from the bridge closest to the hotel.”

“Or we go with cool names first. Look at this one. House of the Trembling Madness. Who wouldn’t want to visit that place?”

At this point, with our best leads behind us, it didn’t really matter to me. I was just grateful not to be doing this alone. “Cool names it is. Which way?”

As expected, House of the Trembling Madness was as cool as its name, the second-floor pub small but eclectic with high wooden beams and a cozy old-world atmosphere. Unfortunately, the bartenders had no idea where the picture was taken but were “pretty sure” it wasn’t their place. Back on the street, and starting to get hungry, I was about to ask Clara if she wanted to find food when a sign across the street caught my eye.

Digging out the photo, I held it up.

“What are you thinking?” Clara asked, following my gaze.

“I don’t know. There’s something about that place but… I don’t think it’s the one.”

She shrugged. “Maybe not, but The Crooked Key is a pretty cool name so, onward,” she said, heading across the street without waiting for me.

A wooden sign with a key hung above an otherwise nondescript Tudor-style building. We walked into the front room, its wooden tables mostly full. Seeing the bar in a back room, I headed right to the bartender, our modus operandi firmly in place.

When it was our turn to be served, I asked the young woman, whose tattooed arms held very little uninked skin, if she recognized the building in the photo.

“We’re pretty sure it’s a pub, based on the windows and architecture.”

She looked at the photo and, as everyone had done before her, shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not sure where that is. But it’s definitely not this place.”

My shoulders slumped. “We didn’t think so, but maybe with renovations or something, you never know.”

The bartender laughed. “This place hasn’t been renovated, ever. Maybe a fresh coat of paint and some new wiring, but otherwise, the owner is pretty strict about keeping things as is. We’re the oldest pub in York.”

“My map says the Ye Olde Starre Inne is the oldest,” Clara said beside me.

“Semantics. Their building dates back to the 1550s but it wasn’t a pub until 1644. We’re the oldest continuing running pub, even older than The Black Swan which was actually a pub before Starre Inne.”

Semantics indeed. Seemed like being the “oldest pub in York” was a popular claim, which I understood given the marketing angle. “You mentioned the owner. Is he or she around by any chance? I’d love to have them take a look at this.”

“Sorry, not at the moment.” The bartender looked behind us to where a line had begun to form.

“Should we grab a bite here?” I asked Clara, my mouth watering as the smell of fish and chips wafted by me. I found the culprit immediately.

“Sure. Two orders of fish and chips and two pints of Beavertown Pale Ale, please,” she ordered.

We sat at the only open table near the bar with our drinks. “I guess you saw me staring at the food?”

Clara laughed. “You weren’t subtle.”

As we waited for our meals, I took out my phone and logged the visit. The Crooked Key, no owner. If we had time before leaving York, I figured we could backtrack anywhere we hadn’t been able to speak to the pubs’ owners.

Putting down my phone, I glanced around the room. “Why is that guy sitting on a toilet?”

Clara turned to the table in question, one of the seats an old-fashioned toilet. “Um, no idea. That’s the strangest seat I’ve ever seen.”

“It is an odd place, isn’t it?”

Nothing seemed to match. The Crooked Key was as eclectic as it was old. In some ways, it was my favorite pub so far.

“That’s interesting.” Clara was pointing toward the bar behind me. I spun around in my seat. She wasn’t pointing to the bar at all but a chalkboard beside it. I read the words aloud. “Welcome, travelers from afar. Within these walls lies the legacy of ancient journeys and hidden realms. Those who seek the truth of the mysteries beyond know history and magic intertwine here. Inquire within.”

A chill ran up my spine as I finished reading. History and magic. I took a course in college exploring both and knew, at one time, that magic was believed to be the source of much unexplained phenomena.

“Cool.” I thought Clara was talking about the chalkboard message until I turned back to see her staring at our meals. That was quick. “Thanks so much,” she said to the waiter and then, “Cheers,” to me.

Laughing at her liberal use of “cheers” since we’d stepped foot in England, I filled my stomach, unable to shake the chalkboard message from my head, even when Clara declared it was time to hit the next pub.

“Ready?”

Oddly, I wasn’t. “Let me just check one thing first.” Heading back to the bar, I asked one last question. “Do you know anything about that message?”

The bartender peered at the board. “Only that it’s been the same message since I started. No one is allowed to touch it. Supposedly it’s been there for years. Excuse me,” she said, serving the man beside me.

It’s been there for years.

Part of me wanted to head back to Clara and continue our search. But the curious part of me, the one that simply couldn’t stop asking questions, won out. “Do you know who might have more insight about it?” I asked, nodding toward the board.

“The owner,” she said, unceremoniously. I was definitely pushing my luck.

“Any idea when they might be available?”

“Can I help you?”

Somehow, I knew the voice at my back was the person we were discussing. Turning, a stout man, probably around fifty, looked at me as the bartender said, “Jon, she was asking about the chalkboard message.”

I suddenly felt like a complete idiot. “I was just curious about it,” I said, trying to catch Clara’s attention. The picture was on our table.

“It’s been up there for years,” he confirmed, moving closer to the board. “No idea what it means.”

“Why keep it up, then?”

If he was annoyed by my question, Jon didn’t let on. “Not sure, to be honest. Superstition, I guess.”

As he spoke, I re-read the words. And blinked.

Forgetting all about Jon and having Clara fetch the picture, I moved closer. It was too small to have noticed from our table, but just after the last word ‘within’ there was a tiny symbol. My heart raced.

I moved closer.

Staring back at me, a circle. Inside, a swirling pattern resembling wind with a small feather at its center.

My fingers fumbled to get the ring off my finger. Hands shaking, I turned it around, already knowing what I would find engraved inside. In the few months since discovering it, I’d dissected, researched, and memorized every facet of this ring.

“What is it?” Clara asked, now standing beside me. Turning to see The Crooked Key’s owner watching me, I told them both. “That symbol is on my ring.”

“Get out?” Clara moved closed to the board to have a look.

“Impossible.” Jon said what I’d been thinking. As our eyes met, I noticed a suspicion there which hadn’t been present a few seconds ago. “May I?” he asked, holding out his hand.

Reluctant to part with the ring, I reminded myself this was the very reason Clara and I had traveled across a damn ocean. For answers. I handed the ring to him, dropping it in his hand. Inspecting the stone and then turning it upside down, Jon looked between it and his chalkboard.

“Where did you get this?” he asked.

This time, there was no doubt. He was suspicious of me for some reason. Not caring for his tone, I asked for my ring back. “My mother gave it to me,” I said defensively.

His eyes narrowed. “Your mother?”

Clara poked my side, shoving the photo into my hands. I showed it to him. “My mother,” I said as he took it. “That’s her, almost thirty years ago. I came here looking for answers because Mom doesn’t remember a lot of what happened on that visit. And some of it is kind of important.”

He didn’t say a word.

Instead, Jon stared at the picture and then finally, after what felt like ages, he raised his head. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

“Are you okay?” I asked, forgetting that he’d all but accused me of stealing the ring. At least, that was how it had felt to me.

“What’s your name?”

Again, no preamble. Blunt. To the point. But I supposed there was no harm in answering. “Mev.”

Jon closed his eyes. Clara and I exchanged a glance. Everything about the encounter was strange and becoming stranger by the minute. Not to mention that symbol, which I’d not been able to find anywhere online, in any database, and which didn’t seem to exist except on my ring.

And on that chalkboard.

Jon opened his eyes. “Short for Mevlida?”

“Holy shit,” Clara muttered beside me.

I suddenly felt faint.

“Yes,” Clara said when I didn’t answer. “Mevlida Harper.”

He took a deep breath. Exhaled. Looked me straight in the eyes. “Your mother was here.”

And there it was. The confirmation I’d been waiting for since stepping onto the plane, hoping against hope one old picture could fill in some of my mother’s blanks.

Before I could say anything, he added, “I’m sorry, I can’t help you.”

No. No, no, no. This was not happening. “Please don’t do this. I’ve spent an entire lifetime not knowing about my mother’s time here. What happened to her. Who got her pregnant. Why she doesn’t remember anything. This picture, this ring, are the only things I have that tie me to her time here.”

“Is your mother still alive?” he asked kindly, Jon’s suspicions seemingly gone, if not his reluctance to help me.

“She is.”

“I’m sorry?—”

“Please,” Clara begged. “Her mother doesn’t remember even being with a man here. Nothing. When Mev found that photo and ring a few months ago, it was the first clue she’s ever had to filling in the big gaping holes that have put my poor friend in therapy.” Clara shot me a “sorry for revealing that, but we’re desperate” look. “We visited nearly every pub in York looking for answers, and obviously you know something. Please.”

People were looking at us now, the bartender included, but I didn’t care. Wanting to simultaneously hug Clara and pound Jon on the chest, I did neither. It was like I couldn’t move, or speak, my big moment of discovery followed quickly by the sort of frustration that had eaten me alive since I was old enough to ask about my dad.

“Please,” I begged. “Please tell me what you know.”

“You’re not going to believe me,” he said. Jon walked over to the bartender. “Basement key, please?”

The tattooed woman looked as surprised as Jon had been when I showed him my ring. I guessed the basement wasn’t used much. Without a word, she reached under the bar and produced a very old-looking key.

“Come with me,” he said, heading toward a door down two steps I’d spotted earlier on the other side of the bar. Clara ran back to the table to grab our stuff and re-joined us just as Jon opened it. Before heading through, he turned to look at me one last time.

“You’re certain you want to know? Some questions are better left unanswered.”

A refrain I’d heard from my mother a thousand times. One that only strengthened my resolve. Then, remembering the words on the board, I quoted them. “I seek the mysteries beyond and am officially enquiring within.”

For the first time since seeing my ring, Jon smiled. “Right then. Let’s crack on.”

We followed him through the door.

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