3. “Snap” - Rosa Linn
“Snap” - Rosa Linn
Walker
Like any exceptional human being, I start the way I mean to finish.
That means I explore the entire Gothic mansion I get to call home for the next few weeks, assess the comfort level of each of the seven bedrooms and their respective beds so I can choose one, and make a game plan for the weeks ahead.
My favorite room is, to no surprise, the library. It’s unlike any home library I’ve ever seen before, and if there were any way to stuff it into my trunk and take it back to Oxford with me, you’d better believe I would have already done so.
The whole back wall on the north side of the house is made of ornately arched windows. The room is also two stories tall, so there is another set of windows that can be reached from the mezzanine that runs around the perimeter of the space.
A huge fireplace takes up most of the east wall. The chimney stretches to the ceiling and features engraved images, which I haven’t had a chance to inspect up close yet. Tucked into a corner, there’s a spiral staircase that leads to the mezzanine.
Where there aren’t windows or doors set into the walls, there are books. In the alcove behind the staircase, running along the entire mezzanine—even on shelves above the doors. I could spend years in here, doing nothing but reading, and still not come close to consuming all of those words.
Every room in the house features thick, dark wood trim that gleams in the light, thick Persian rugs that don’t make a sound when you step on them, and ornate gold-framed paintings of people whose eyes follow you around the room. It is more perfect than anything I could have designed myself.
The only problem is the smell. It’s still musty and stale in here, and it’s too hot to leave the windows open.
I didn’t bring candles with me, as they would have put me over the weight limit for my luggage.
But I’ve never complained about needing to buy new candles before, and I don’t intend to start now.
As I was preparing for this trip, I contemplated the wisdom of hiring a housekeeper for the duration of my stay, but I’ve survived on my own at Oxford for the past six years. This house may be fifty times larger than my small flat there, but I won’t be here much.
My sole purpose for coming to Wesbourne in the first place is to access the in-depth resources on the life and works of G.R.
Huntington stored at the Wesbourne Archives.
So, much as I would love to spend the next 365 days of my life in this castle from my wildest daydreams, the reality is I’ll be spending minimal time within her walls.
Therefore, housekeeper: unnecessary. I may not be able to whip up a gourmet spread for dinner, but since I’ll be hunched over a book or my laptop most of the time anyway, oatmeal and coffee will suffice.
I type “candle shop” into the search bar of my phone and scroll through the results. There’s a cute one downtown in the artisanal district. It’s right around the corner from my favorite coffee shop—back when I had a right to claim things like a favorite coffee shop and my bookstore .
Going downtown is a risk, but since I can’t imagine Lux or Maeve stooping low enough to buy their own candles, and the guys would rather extract a kidney themselves than set foot inside a store like that, I calculate the risk as low enough to take.
Since my car is still tucked inside my mum’s garage, I order another Uber.
Getting rides to and from the Archives is going to get expensive fast, so I’ll need to swing by to pick up my Audi.
She has no idea I’m in town—unless Lux’s big mouth has already reached her—but I can’t avoid at least one visit.
She would be devastated if she found out later.
I have the driver drop me in front of Cafe de Olla. The scent of espresso and freshly baked pastries hits me as I push open the door. This is the scent I want for the kitchen, something to make me think my oatmeal is more exciting than it has any right to be.
I smile at the barista behind the counter, and she returns it, but I can tell she doesn’t recognize me. I used to come here every day to get my vanilla chai latte, but when you’ve been gone for two years, other faces creep in to take your place in people’s memories.
After getting my chai, I walk back outside. The temperature is already climbing, even though it’s not even noon. I should’ve gotten my chai iced.
I can’t afford to linger. I’m not willing to risk running into someone I know. This coffee shop may be twenty minutes from the Hills, but I have no idea what habits they keep these days.
The candle shop has a bell over the door, which jingles when I push it open.
The heady aroma of thousands of candles greets my nose, and I inhale deeply.
Shelves upon shelves stocked with candles in various containers line the room.
There are ones in hand-painted teacups, amber-colored glass jars, china dishes, and in vintage lidded bowls in every color of the rainbow.
My heart rate increases as I grab a shopping basket and make my way down the first aisle. I’ll need to choose the perfect scent and the perfect container for each of the main rooms of the house.
It takes much longer than it should, and by the time I’m ready to check out, my bladder has decided now is the perfect time to announce its full state. Stupid latte.
There’s a restroom to my left, so I set my basket beside the door—the universal signal for I’ll be right back to retrieve this —and slip inside.
As I’m drying my hands, I congratulate myself in the mirror. My plan is already going splendidly. Other than that slight mishap at the airport, I’m starting to think that I worried a little too much about coming home. This isn’t going to be so bad after all.
I walk out of the restroom but immediately halt. There’s a blonde woman hunched over in the corridor, unloading the contents of my basket into her own.
“Hey!” I yell as she grabs the vintage candy bowl with the “Rainy Day Reading” scent. “Those are mine!” I reach to pull my basket from her grip, and it comes away much too easily. There’s nothing left inside.
She’s already barreling toward the checkout, my candles peeking out of the top of her basket. I reach the counter as she’s setting it down.
“This woman stole my candles,” I say.
Amusement crosses the clerk’s face. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember you purchasing anything today.”
“I hadn’t purchased them yet,” I say. “I set them outside while I used the restroom.”
She gives me a sad smile, the biggest contradictory emotion a person can wear. She begins scanning the candles—my candles. “I can’t prove who selected them from the shelf first. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you have CCTV?” I say, glancing around.
“We don’t have any cameras,” she says, at the same time as I come to that realization myself .
I glare at the thief. She doesn’t even bother looking my way. She’s about my height, with a short blonde bob. She’s wearing an olive-green tank and black leggings.
“Ma’am?” the clerk says. “You’ll need to go find your own candles.” She offers a smile that I think is supposed to look sympathetic. “I’m sorry,” she says for the third time.
I come close to walking out of the store without a single candle. But since that wouldn’t solve anything, I retreat to the aisles, where I begin the long selection process all over again.
The fact that there are people depraved enough to steal from other people’s shopping baskets is infuriating. For one brief second, I imagine the looks on the rest of the shoppers’ faces as I tell them about what the woman did, the horror and rage they would express matching my own.
I shake the thought away. That way madness lies, and one cannot afford madness when working on one’s dissertation research.
I find new candles—although none of the containers are as good as the first ones I chose—and pay the clerk for them.
She tries to engage me in conversation, probably feeling bad about the incident earlier, but I ignore her.
I add a potted plant to my purchase at the last second.
I need a reminder that not everything is about me.
So much for everything going according to plan.
I should have stayed home.