Chapter 2
Chapter Two
T he next day, Esme called into the pub for lunch. Seren came out of the kitchen, tucking a pencil behind one ear. Her dark hair was twisted off her face in a chic knot, and she was wearing a red checked shirt that matched her lipstick. It made Esme think that she ought to start making an effort with her own appearance. At least occasionally.
Bee arrived shortly after and they chatted about this and that, avoiding the big subjects, and focusing on their lunch orders.
When Seren brought over their food, she lingered. ‘Will there be someone new?’
‘What?’ Esme had a forkful of quiche ready to go, and she put it back down.
‘We’re a man down,’ Seren said, referring to the sudden departure of Fiona’s husband, Oliver. ‘Does that mean someone else can stay? I’ve got a cousin looking for a place to live and I just wondered…’
Only residents could stay on the island for longer than two nights. It was a rule enforced by the protective wards that cloaked the island from the mainland, keeping it forgettable to the wider community of Britain and the world.
‘I don’t know if it works like that,’ Bee began.
Seren waved a hand. ‘Oh, that’s all right. I told her I would ask and now I have.’
‘You don’t want her to move here?’ Esme guessed.
‘It’s not that. I don’t think she would enjoy island life. It’s too quiet for her.’ Seren flashed a smile. ‘And, yeah, she would drive me bloody mad.’
After Seren had left, Esme asked Bee how it did work. ‘Does the island have a quota of residents? Now that Oliver has gone, does that mean the next person who visits will be able to stay if they want?’ She felt a shiver of anxiety at the prospect. Change was not her favourite thing and new people were even worse.
‘I don’t know if there is an exact quota,’ Bee said. ‘And it may be that family members of residents get a pass.’ She was vigorously grinding black pepper over her food and paused to sneeze.
‘Bless you,’ Esme said automatically.
Bee shot her a piercing look. ‘I thank you, Witch.’
Esme felt herself blush. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Get a hold of yourself,’ Bee said, but not unkindly. As one of the mysterious Three Sisters, Bee was inherently terrifying. But she was also the kindest and most approachable of the three. Having known her for seven years, Esme was mostly comfortable in her presence, but it didn’t take much to throw her out of that relaxed state. One big step forward was that Esme could now confidently admit that Bee was not of this world. Not human. Or not just human.
‘But it’s a possibility? That we’ll have a new resident?’ They hadn’t long acquired a newcomer, Luke, and that hadn’t been all bad…
‘When Alvis died, we needed a Book Keeper. There are roles that must be filled. Oliver wasn’t important.’
Well, that was blunt. But also, Esme had to admit, entirely true. The man had done something to do with investing and given financial advice, but he had only been on the island because of his wife, Fiona. ‘I don’t want somebody new.’ The words were out before Esme realised she had been going to say them.
‘New can be good.’
‘New can be dangerous.’
Bee smiled widely. ‘That, too.’
Luke was settled in his reading chair with a fresh mug of tea and the closed sign flipped on the door of the shop. After his late-night conversation with Tobias, he had come back to his bedroom above the shop and slept like the dead. The day had been spent in a stupefied state between sleeping and waking. He could feel the concern over his brother and the confusion over what he should do, but his mind seemed determined to keep it turned down low. It all felt muffled and somehow distant in the light of a new day. It wasn’t something he could defer forever, he knew, but he was grateful for the reprieve.
He reached blindly for the paperback spy novel, which he had left on top of the pile of books next to the chair, but felt an unexpected texture. Instead of the soft cardboard of a vintage Penguin, worn smooth with time, his fingers brushed the rougher surface of a clothbound book.
The tiny jolt of confusion made him sit straighter. He looked down and discovered that the pile of business books, thrillers and Penguin classics was no longer crowned with John le Carré’s The Spy Who Came in from the Cold, but with a small clothbound book. It had probably been red once, but was now a faded pink. He looked around at the bookshelves. The air in the shop was tingling, almost like a small current of electricity was running through the atmosphere. It was the same feeling you got when there was somebody else hidden in the room and they were holding their breath, trying not to be discovered. He knew that phenomenon. Had played a lot of hide and seek when he was a kid. Mostly with his twin brother, but also sometimes as a teen, with his drunk father.
‘Where is my book?’ He kept his voice even. The bookshop was his friend. At least, he hoped that was true.
There was no answer. Which was probably the less alarming outcome, really. After another ten seconds of waiting and listening, Luke allowed a small sigh. He picked up the clothbound book and turned it over. The cover was blank. No stamped letters on the cover or spine. Flipping it open, he was halted by Alvis’s name, written in perfect cursive on the inside of the front cover. Alvis Knott 1939. The writing was in soft pencil and blurred with age, but it was perfectly legible. And it made no sense. Alvis hadn’t been a young woman when she had died, murdered by Fiona’s husband Oliver in a fit of rage when she had refused to give him a lump of sea glass that now sat on Esme’s kitchen windowsill. But this date was eighty-four years ago and, assuming she hadn’t popped out of the womb writing in cursive, had to have been written when she was at least ten. He pictured Alvis. Was ninety-four possible? He would have guessed early seventies, but he supposed it wasn’t the strangest thing he had encountered on the island.
He was just about to flip to the title page when the landline rang. As the mobile signal on the island was patchy, residents still used their landlines as a matter of habit. The bookshop’s telephone was chunky and red and had an actual dial. It lived on the counter and Luke pulled himself out of his reading chair to answer it, betting it would be Tobias checking in after his late-night visit.
Instead of Tobias’s voice, there was a kind of confused gasp and then a pause.
‘Hello?’ Luke tried.
‘Is Alvis there?’
Luke leaned against the counter and looked out of the front window. The sun was low and reflecting golden light onto the glass. ‘No. I’m very sorry, but I have some bad news.’ He explained that Alvis had died.
The voice on the other end of the line was male and slightly quavery, as if it belonged to somebody quite elderly. ‘Alvis knew what to look out for. She knew my area of specialism. I don’t think I can… Oh dear.’
‘I run the shop now. If you tell me what Alvis did, I can try to do the same.’
‘Oh dear,’ the man said again. ‘This is very bad. There was another place… A local shop. It wasn’t all that good, truth be told, but that’s gone, now, too.’ His voice had an aggrieved tone. ‘This really is most inconvenient.’
‘I’m sorry for your loss.’
Silence. And a bit more breathing.
‘Can I help you with anything?’ Even before Luke had finished his sentence, there was a click, and he was left speaking to dead air.
Tobias walked from the spit of rock known as Seal Point along the eastern edge of the island to the ruins of the castle. Winter trotted beside him, content to go at the same pace as Tobias, at least for now. As a younger dog, Winter had roamed widely throughout their walks. Running ahead to investigate and repeatedly dashing back to check in with Tobias, looping circuits around him so that he had to have covered ten times the distance by the time they returned home. It was natural for a dog to calm as he aged, Tobias reasoned, and it surely meant nothing more than maturity of spirit.
The day had started overcast, but now the clouds had cleared, and a pale sky stretched from the horizon. The sun was still low and wouldn’t climb very high at this time of the year. Tobias felt his lungs expand with deepening breaths and his muscles stretch pleasantly as he strode out along the path. He was more vital in the cold season, could feel his thoughts snapping to attention and his body responding more readily to his commands. Strength ran through his limbs, and he flexed his fingers against the wooden handle of his walking stick with satisfaction. The drowsiness of the summer had been cleared out by the north wind and he was fully awake.
The ruins of the castle came into view and Tobias could see the original building, the ground as it had been before those stones had been laid, and the vast rock sill that had formed before the island millions of years before that. This palimpsest was everywhere for Tobias, but most clear on the island that was his home. He was adept at filtering the multiple views, focusing on the latest layer and letting the others fade to the background, but they were always present.
Winter broke away from his side, letting out a sharp bark of warning. His hackles were up and he stared toward the castle.
‘What is it?’
Winter barked again, low and quiet. A secret warning that was more alarming than a loud one. It meant he wasn’t sure whether he could frighten the threat, and his uncertainty pierced Tobias’s heart. Was Winter feeling his age? He joined the dog where he stood a few paces along the path.
He heard the singing first. Then the group appeared around the corner from the castle. Five people dressed in warm puffy coats and sensible walking boots, the leader of the pack with walking poles and all of them with brightly coloured daysacks, no doubt filled with sandwiches and Kendal Mint Cake. They were singing and didn’t falter even after they must have seen Tobias. He didn’t recognise the song, although the melody reminded him of one of the old border ballads.
Tobias patted Winter. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’re harmless.’
Winter looked up at him with an expression that begged to differ, but his hackles were no longer raised and his ears lay normally.
Tobias moved to the side of the path to give the group room to pass. He leaned on his stick and Winter sat obediently next to him, forming the perfect image of the country gent with his faithful hound. Winter slightly spoiled this by letting out a pungent fart just as the group came level.
Tobias nodded to the walkers and they waved cheerily, not breaking their song to say ‘hello’.
After their voices had faded and Tobias had started on his way, he said, mildly. ‘That wasn’t very polite.’
Winter ignored him, springing away to some undergrowth to chase something more interesting.