Chapter Five
The dining room is long and narrow, lit on one side by enormous windows. A polished mahogany table stretches almost its full
length, gleaming in the morning sun.
Forrest is sitting at the far end, writing in a notebook. He doesn’t hear me come in. I could turn around right now, and he’d
never know I was here. Except I’m really hungry. I haven’t had anything since those profiteroles.
There’s a huge oak dresser on the long wall opposite the windows, with a breakfast buffet of bacon and eggs kept warm under
silver domes and a selection of fresh pastries piled high. I love self-service food; it is, in my opinion, one of the greatest
inventions of humanity. It provides instant access to food without any awkward menu or waiting staff interaction, and you
get to decide your own portions. Perfection. I put it right up there with landing on the moon.
The problem is, where do I sit at this table and how will Forrest Faulkner interpret my choice? Not that I am overthinking
this or anything.
If I were doing that, I’d being thinking about how I don’t want to sit near him, but also, I don’t want to look like I am deliberately sitting as far away from him as I possibly can because then he’d know that I find him intolerable, and he’d win.
If I sit in the middle of the table, I’d look like I’d thought about it too much and then he’d know that I was thinking about
him, and he’d win.
If Rani were here, I wouldn’t have to think about it, she’d just go sit somewhere and I’d sit next to her, and it wouldn’t
mean anything at all. But Rani is not here, and it falls to me to make a strategic move that could determine the course of
the rest of my life.
So, yeah, not overthinking it AT ALL.
Then it hits me: I’ll do what he least expects.
He’ll be confused and I will win. So, in a moment of unprecedented swagger, I put my plate down, right next to him. Not opposite,
you understand, but right next to him. I parallel parked this dilemma. Then, picking up the catering-size flask of coffee
and a stupidly small porcelain cup and saucer, I bring them back to the table and pour my first coffee of the day.
“I think that’s for sharing.” Forrest Faulkner nods at the giant flask as I finish my first thimble of caffeine and go for
a refill.
“Want some?” I ask. The advantage of sitting next to him is that I don’t have to look at him and his wild, curly poet hair
and dark, fascinating eyes.
The trouble with having Forrest Faulkner as a nemesis is that he is distractingly handsome, in very much a romantic lead sort of way, and I do have a soft spot for those types.
If I had a penny for every time I have had a lengthy, all-consuming, totally unrequited crush on a devastatingly good-looking romantic lead type, I’d have about eight pence by now.
Also, I am no stranger to the whole enemies-to-lovers fantasy.
The very last thing I need right now is to get that trope stuck in my head and start thinking I fancy my mortal foe.
Avoiding looking at him is a sensible tactic.
Unfortunately, I can still smell him though, and it turns out that he smells of magical woodland. For some reason that’s the
only way my brain can think to describe his fresh, green, and woody scent, which also comes with an image of centaurs and
fairies.
“I already had a cup,” he says, without turning towards me either. “Looks like you and me were last to breakfast, so fill
your boots.”
I press the magic button and more coffee flows into my tiny cup. Knocking it back in one go, I put the empty cup under the
spout and go again. Caffeine helps me think. Sometimes I overdo it and end up needing to do zoomies outside like an overexcited
puppy, but I cannot go without my daily operating levels of caffeine.
Forrest reaches under the table and brings out a red-stained paper bag, which he plops on the table and slides along towards
me, without a glance or a word.
“Small horse’s head?” I ask.
“My shirt,” he replies. “I’d be grateful if you’d rectify the damage, and if that’s not possible, replace it. Although it
was a gift from my . . . It was a gift.”
No apology for insulting me, no second thoughts about calling me stupid in front of all those people. All he can think about
is his stupid shirt. At least I took responsibility for my mistake. Obviously, he doesn’t think belittling me in front of
an audience is a mistake. He wouldn’t be the first.
Staring at the bag, I consider pouring my fourth coffee onto it and would except I want to drink it more. Ketchup could work though . . .
Fortunately for me and Forrest’s shirt, Hal Babbage enters the room and brings with him some serious main character energy.
He’s wearing another, slightly different shade of blue suit from yesterday. His golden hair perfectly matches the summer day
outside, and his smile seems to lift my heart with optimism. I let my hair fall over my face like a curtain to hide my blushes
from Forrest, observing Hal from behind as he chooses from the buffet. He has a very nice behind.
Hal smiles at me as he takes the seat opposite, a smile that goes all the way to his baby-blue eyes, which really do twinkle.
For a second, I’m fourteen again lost in The Apocalypse Games, living and breathing every word as if it were my life.
A lot has changed since then. I managed to make a life for myself after a childhood in the system. Now, I’m an eminent scientist
respected in my field. But one thing hasn’t changed. And that is I’ve still not done any kissing.
(Any sexual kissing, I should say. I kiss Rani quite often and dogs all the time. Even ones I don’t know. But I do always
ask first. The dog, not the owner.)
There have been a couple of moments when I thought about it. But then I always change my mind because, you see, my first imaginary
kiss was the most perfect kiss that has been dreamt of in literature or reality and I can’t let my first real kiss be any
less magnificent. I would really rather just not kiss anyone.
“How did you sleep?” Hal asks, his voice oddly familiar. “I always find the first night in a new place can be unsettling.
Especially here, especially with so much at stake.”
“I was really tired, so I slept well,” I tell him. “Although I might have seen a ghost.”
Forrest snorts derisively.
“The Blue Lady?” Hal asks. “I believe the room you are staying in used to be her bedroom.”
“Yes.” I smile excitedly. “Lady B says she only appears if there is a child in mortal danger or something.”
“Famous for it,” Hal says. “Actually, Alex Beaumont was telling me only last night that Blue Lady saved him from drowning
in a disused well he’d stumbled on as a boy.”
Sighing loudly, Forrest closes his notebook with a snap.
“For a couple of scientists, you two seem to put a lot of stock in hokum.”
“And for someone who makes stuff up for a living, you seem to be lacking in imagination,” I tell him. “The idea of what we
currently call ghosts is nothing more than a scientific problem that we have yet to solve, much like black holes were in the
1970s.”
“Exactly so,” Hal says. “If, for example, we agree with Einstein that all time happens all at once, then who’s to say that
when we encounter an apparition or ghostly cry, that it’s not just a collision of realities and timelines, shaking things
up a bit?”
“Ghosts are just man’s attempt to make death less frightening,” Forrest says, shaking his head.
“Forrest?” Lady B opens the dining room door.
“The bus has arrived with your summer school students, all ready for their first day. They are quite . . . enthusiastic.” She gives him a wide-eyed, mildly terrified look.
“The weather looks fine, so we’ll go ahead with the plan to work with them outside in the parkland, agreed?
” She glances out of the window where several dozen teens are piling off a bus like a horde of fashionably dressed zombies.
“The very far side of the parkland, perhaps . . . We wouldn’t want to give our visitors a fright. ”
“You’re teaching poetry to a load of Yorkshire schoolkids?” I ask him, quizzical.
“Not just poetry, and I’ve worked with kids from all backgrounds. I’m sure they are great.” Outside one boy throws a left
hook at another, and a group of girls start vaping in earnest. Forrest squares his shoulders, scoops up his notebook, and
heads out. Having only just survived the horror that was high school with my life, I almost feel sorry for him. But then I
remember the stupid comment, and I guess I think he deserves everything he gets today.
“Ava and Hal,” Lady B says, “once you’ve finished your breakfast, please meet me in the orangery.”
Hal and I nod and smile.
“What’s an orangery?” I ask Hal as she leaves.
“An orangery is a kind of greenhouse that became popular in the late nineteenth century, designed to nurture the propagation
of citrus fruits and other delicate or exotic plants that require a warm and well-controlled environment. The orangery at
Castle Beaumont is one of the largest and most elaborate in the UK and was considered one of the finest examples of Gothic
architecture of the nineteenth century when it was added to the castle.”
“You’d make a great chatbot,” I tell him admiringly.
“Hah.” Hal’s smile is rueful. “I’m a know-it-all. Is it annoying?”
“Not to me,” I say, draining the last of the coffee. “I think you’re fascinating.”
That was probably a bit too much, right?
Still, Hal takes it all in his stride. Getting up, he comes round to my side of the table and pulls out my chair for me as I stand. Hal offers me his arm.
“Well, Ava Green,” he says. “Shall we see what Castle Beaumont has in store for us today?”
“Let’s,” I say, finding taking his arm surprisingly natural. “I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be something wonderful.”