Chapter 11
Heathcliff and I spend the next three days sightseeing.
For some reason, Chloe’s labyrinth text inspired me to explore ancient religious sites. With my widow’s fashion and attempt
to find my way in my post-Philip world, I suppose I’m on a pilgrimage. To my knowledge, there aren’t any sacred labyrinths
around me, so walking about a church gallery seems to be the next best thing.
First, we tour Westminster Abbey. Heathcliff is rather underwhelmed by the arches and stained glass. “This is BORING. Are
we going to be in here FOREVER?” But he does perk up when I show him the coronation chair and explain that everyone has to sit in it when they become king
or queen.
“Did the Joker ever try to bomb it?”
“Not to my knowledge. Some suffragettes did once.”
“Do they work for the Joker?”
“No.” I almost pee my pants giggling. “They were women who stirred up trouble so they could vote.”
“Oh.”
The next day, we take the train to Stonehenge. The sun and wind beat down on the Salisbury Plain. A strong breeze ripples
the grasses, but not enough to drown out the surrounding native starlings’ songs. Fortunately, there are plenty of places
here for Heathcliff to run about and no stuffy museum guards to glare at me. I tell Heathcliff a bit about the history, that
this was a sort of very old church. Heathcliff asks why we can’t go to a “church like this” where we can run around “old giant stones.”
I see his point.
On the third day, we take the train to Canterbury. I text Chloe a photo of the cathedral. For centuries, pilgrims came here
seeking health, peace, war, or love. Like me, they probably didn’t even know exactly what they sought. Canterbury Cathedral
just seems like the logical place to be when unraveling a very tight knot. I can’t take my eyes off the indentations in the
altar’s stone steps from countless pilgrims who found themselves kneeling here since the twelfth century.
Heathcliff found Canterbury more to his liking than Westminster Abbey. We had a lively tour guide who dramatically retold
the gruesome murder of Thomas Becket and how one knight stirred the archbishop’s brains with his sword. Heathcliff was delighted
when I bought him some miniature knight figurines from the cathedral gift shop on our way out.
I decide to grab an early dinner before taking the train back to London. We slide into the pub booth, and Heathcliff spreads
the little knights out on the table. I’m just looking at the menu when August texts me.
Hullo Elizabeth! Sorry for the delay. I’ve had a helluva few days on an Inspector Hall deadline!
If you’re still interested, I would love to take you out for a drink at the Hotel Café Royal.
(I’m sure you of all people know what a literary gem it is!) Anyway, let me know if you’re interested, and I can meet you there around 3:00 Friday.
My heartbeat picks up as I stare at the text. I half-expected not to hear from dashing August again. I’m not even pissed that
he’s calling me by Elizabeth even though that usually drives me nuts. Dansworth gets a pass since he’s British and charming.
I privately acknowledge that meeting a handsome man at a café within the same year that my husband has passed away goes beyond
riding alone with him in a carriage or flashing him my ankle. I can’t go. It’s too improper. Realizing I’m dangerously close
to rejecting this intriguing man, I go ahead and respond before overthinking it.
Sure thing, August! I’ll see you then!
“Who ya’ texting?” Heathcliff asks, as his plastic knights battle it out.
“No one.” Sweat breaks out on my forehead. I’m not doing anything wrong, right? Why do I feel so funny about this?
By the time we get back on the train, I realize how exhausted I am. My feet ache inside my black walking shoes. It’s been
a wonderful but very busy three days. Heathcliff falls asleep pretty quickly on the ride home. I’m looking forward to a couple
of quieter days at the row house with time spent reading and sipping cups of hot tea.
Pretty soon, like Heathcliff, I fall asleep. I’m in the Azalea Dream’s sprawling backyard practicing archery with Mirabel.
We’re in a clearing behind the gardens; it’s an ideal summer day—a gentle breeze rippling through the pines, bluebirds clustering
around her wooden feeders. A little iron-wrought stand with a glass pitcher of lemonade and glasses rests between us.
I shoot first, my arrow bouncing off the edge of the canvas target.
“Drat!” I mutter lightly.
Mirabel, under the shade of her giant, yellow-bowed sun hat, nocks her arrow.
“I hope your aim’s better than mine,” I say, pouring myself a glass of lemonade.
“Most definitely.”
I glance up to see her smiling maniacally, her arrow pointed straight at me.
I wake up with a jolt, Heathcliff still asleep on my shoulder.
Yikes. Mirabel aiming an arrow straight at me on a sunny day has to be one of the scariest nightmares I’ve had in my life.
Just under the one where I’m giving my dissertation defense in my underwear. I shake my head, take a few deep breaths, and
check my phone. We’re about twenty minutes from London.
There’s also a cheery text from August: Excellent! I’ll see you then!
Hmmm. Well, I suppose I’m meeting A.D. Hemmings at the glamorous Café Royal on Friday afternoon for drinks.
From Blood Ties:
Hall downs two pints within half an hour. The pub’s growing crowded as uni students start pouring in. But he’s not about to
give up his large booth. He needs space and drink right now. He orders another pint.
Why is he always messing up with women? He didn’t even see that his own bloody partner, Wren, had been the Cardiff Strangler the entire time.
And Penny Bledsoe is fit, with her long blond locks and silk stockings—she’s bewitching him.
But it’s at that critical point where she wants more.
Sure, she ignites him in the bedroom. But in her longing dark eyes, he sees her need.
He takes a slow draw of his diminishing third pint and grimaces.
She wants a relationship.
He signals the server for another drink.
Love never goes smoothly for him. Will it always be about the hunt? Why does it have to be so fucking complicated all the
time? He’s after the Copycat now. Maybe it’s just in his blood to pursue women like he pursues criminals and then not know
what to do with himself when the chase is up . . .
He sighs. He’s starting to feel a little pissed. Good. He heads to the loo.
When he returns to the table, there’s a fresh amber pint waiting.
But right next to it is a tiny, miniature rope, fashioned like a noose.
The Copycat.
He takes a long sip, puts his hat on and stands to leave.
It’s a cat-and-mouse game now.
But he’ll be the bloody tomcat. Always.
Excerpt from The Heathcliff Saga:
“If you ask, me, Cathy, you’d do best to leave the both of them alone.”
Nelly narrows her eyes at Cathy while churning butter.
“But, Nelly, that’s impossible. Heathcliff stirs my blood, and Linwood . . .”
“Oh, that Linwood boy!” Nelly plunges the dasher violently through the lid. “He’s all charm, with his smooth, high cheekbones
and gentleman’s clothes. He’s been mollycoddled his whole life, and it’s done ’im no good.”
“But he’s smart and handsome . . .”
“And rich,” Nelly spats.
“I’m going out.”
“You’ve been going out a lot.”
Furious, Cathy looks away at the mince pie Nelly left to cool on the windowsill. Steam rises through the crust’s slits. Beyond
the window, a sea of blooming heather ripples.
“On my way to the Grange, I saw ’im disappearing into Penistone Crags,” Nelly adds. “If he’s summoning the magic himself,
it will be disastrous for us all.”
Cathy tightens her lips. “I’ve got it under control, Nelly.”
“Do ye, now? You don’t even have control over your own heart. This ’ere’s magic, luv. You don’t know what yer messing with.”