Chapter 18
GRETA BLINKED AGAINST the dim light, all her senses jangling. She felt like she’d been trapped underwater, weighed down by an anchor, and had finally fought her way to the surface, gasping for air.
Gradually, the worn wooden tables and red lightshades of Iris’s coffee shop came into focus. The air around her felt chilly, and she rubbed the goose bumps on her arms, already missing the heat of the crackling fire in the cabin.
Jim had disappeared. Their snowman was gone. All of Ma- pleville had vanished like a popped soap bubble.
A surge of loss almost swallowed her. Greta could still feel the light touch ofJim’s fingers on her skin, and hear him whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
Immediately, she wanted to go back to Mapleville.
She tried to stand, but felt light-headed, unsure how long she’d been under the effects of the coffee.
A clock on Iris’s wall told her she’d been gone for three and a half hours, though it felt like much longer.
Reaching up, Greta touched her pearl necklace, relieved to feel something that still connected her to her other self.
Outside, the mid-afternoon sky was darkening. Rain lashed against the windows, casting reflections of rivulets onto the floorboards inside. Puddles shimmered on the pavement, and car tyres shushed on the wet road.
Greta’s coffee cup sat in front of her, its rim smudged with her coral lipstick. An inch or so of cold coffee still remained in the bottom, sludgy and dark.
She pulled out her phone, wondering if Jim or Lottie had been in touch, but there were no notifications. Lottie might still be out with Jayden, and Jim was probably chilling in the penthouse.
Greta’s phone suddenly buzzed in her hand, breaking the silence.
Edgar had sent her a message, and she realised she’d hadn’t yet replied to his previous one.
Would you like to meet up sometime to compare experiences? I’m at Barker’s Treasures (a vintage shop near Manchester). I’m in the shop most days, or happy to meet elsewhere . . .
Greta gnawed her bottom lip. The thought of talking to someone who might appreciate the lure, and the challenges, of dipping into an alternate life was like the pull of a magnet.
Though Edgar was a stranger, he was the closest thing she had to a confidant in the real world. Manchester was only ten miles away.
But did she really want to meet up with someone she didn’t know? Even if it meant feeling less alone?
Greta jerked up her head as the TV in the corner of the shop unexpectedly flickered to life, playing an old washing powder commercial. Her heartbeat shot sky-high, and she stumbled toward it, silver light shining on her face.
The commercial began to glitch, the same few seconds looping over and over. A woman smiled brightly as she held up a mound of soapsuds and winked, accompanied by a snippet of a jingle. Static crackled, and the reel started over again.
Greta smacked the side of the TV with her palm.
The commercial resumed, the static cleared, and a film started up next.
Deep Sea Fury was a shameless rehash of Jaws, with Tobias Blake saving swimmers from a man-eating shark.
Although widely panned by critics, it had been a massive hit with audiences, the perfect date-night movie.
Greta would love to star in something so popular.
Gradually, she realised she was alone in the shop and unease prickled in her chest. She looked around for Iris, but there was no sign of her.
Iris’s mortar and pestle sat on one of the tables with a note wedged underneath them.
Back in Thirty Minutes. Iris.
How long had it been waiting for her to find it? The roots of Greta’s hair stiffened. The weight of responsibility, of being the temporary custodian of the place, even for half an hour, felt heavy on her shoulders. She couldn’t leave the shop unattended, and would have to stay until Iris returned.
Greta moved toward the glass jars lining the shelves, examining them more closely.
They looked like they belonged in an apothecary or an old-fashioned sweet shop rather than a café.
She ran her fingers across the handwritten labels, their edges yellowed by time—Dark Matters, Belonging Beans, and Dreamscape.
Greta paused when she saw one named Starbright. If she remembered correctly, Iris had used some of this to create her individual blend. Inside the jar, dark, dry leaves looked like burnt curls of paper. They were mixed with coarsely ground coffee beans and crushed spices.
Greta rubbed the back of her neck, feeling an intense urge to open the jar. The pull of Mapleville rushed over her, with the force of how the moon draws the tide. Waiting seven days until she could visit Iris’s coffee shop again felt like an eternity.
The roar of applause she’d imagined in the ballroom lured her like a siren.
Iris’s last coffee had allowed her to rekindle her connection with Jim and Lottie. Could the contents of this jar help her career to sparkle again?
One cup of coffee a week only.
The rule appeared in Greta’s mind, clear and unbreakable.
She pushed it aside and squinted at the jars, trying to remember which other ingredients Iris had used for her personal blend. There were so many jars that piecing together the recipe felt impossible. Greta wondered if Iris kept records somewhere, or if she stored the recipes in her head.
The thought made her curiosity burn even stronger.
She stepped over to the counter. Behind it, she could see Iris’s storeroom was open, the door ajar. Greta swiftly looked over both shoulders, then darted toward it.
Inside the small room, she could see rows and rows of more small jars, each with a white rabbit on the label. The shelves featured letters of the alphabet, and she held her breath and walked in. She turned around a few jars in the B section before she spotted the name Edgar Barker.
Greta closed her eyes with relief. So, he had been here, too? She wasn’t alone.
A sudden rattle of the shop’s front door made her jump.
She spun around, her heart pounding like a bass drum in her ears. Iris?
As Greta quickly sidestepped back into the coffee shop, her eyes swivelled toward the window.
Outside, a man cupped his hands to his eyes, trying to peer into the shop. Rain glistened on his hood, and his breath fogged the glass.
‘Iris,’ he shouted. ‘Let me in.’
Greta remained statue-still, her lungs feeling like they might burst. She hoped he wouldn’t notice anyone was inside.
Edging farther back into the shadows, she watched as the man paced up and down the pavement.
Then he knocked again, harder this time. Aggressive. The noise boomed around the shop. ‘Iris. I need coffee.’
Greta screwed her eyes shut and willed him to go away.
After a couple more minutes, the stranger gave up and moved on.
Greta let out a shaky breath, her pulse taking a while to return to its usual pace.
Her gaze swept across the coffee shop, settling on her coffee cup still sitting on the table in the booth. A thought flooded her head before she could stop it.
What if I drink the rest of the coffee?
At home, she often zapped her half-drunk cooled brews in the microwave, ignoring Lottie’s exasperated requests to ‘just make a new one, Mum.’
But Iris’s coffee wasn’t ordinary. It seemed to offer a chance to reimagine her life.
Greta approached the cup with trepidation, peeking into the shallow, stagnant brown liquid. Was there enough left to help her return to Mapleville?
Iris hadn’t mentioned anything about temperature or quantity affecting the ritual or its effects. If Greta drank it, she’d technically only be consuming one cup of coffee, just spread out across the day. She pursed her lips as temptation bloomed in her chest, like drops of ink in water.
Her thoughts strayed back to the disastrous evening at the Anvil Inn, Lottie’s sullen silences, Jim’s disbelief in Iris’s coffee shop, Nora’s offers of uninspiring work, and the ever-growing pile of unpaid bills on her kitchen table.
All the mounting rejections in Greta’s life felt like a heap of rubber tyres piled on top of her.
Mapleville offered her the chance to show the world, her family, and herself that she still had something to offer.
Greta headed once more to the jar labelled Starbright, taking it off the shelf. The glass stopper resisted at first, but she gave it a firm pull.
Sniffing its contents, she found its aroma bittersweet, like burnt chocolate with a hint of spice she didn’t recognise. Greta reached inside, pinching the dried leaves and ground coffee beans between her thumb and forefinger. The mixture felt crispy and almost disintegrated at her touch.
She carried a small amount over to the booth and sprinkled it directly into her cup.
Then she stirred the concoction with a spoon, watching the leaves break apart and swirl in the remains of her coffee.
By now her fingertips tingled with craving, even though the thought of drinking the cold brew felt icky.
Greta didn’t know if drinking it would work or not. There was only a small amount of coffee left in the cup—possibly enough for an hour or two away from Longmill. She could still be back here in time for dinner with Lottie, and have time to prepare for the Coffee Morning Crew show the next day.
Her only way to find out was to try it. Even if it felt impulsive, possibly reckless.
As she raised her cup, the coffee’s aroma hit her, strong and pungent. The cold china sent a chill through her lips.
A voice in her head warned her this wasn’t a good idea.
What if Iris catches me?
The thought hit her like a brick, but the pull was too strong, the temptation too much. Greta gripped the handle of the cup tighter. Despite all the alarm bells sounding in her mind, she let the cold coffee slide down her throat.
The bitterness was more pronounced this time, unpleasant. Specks of leaves stuck to her teeth, and she ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth to dislodge them. As Greta swallowed, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions spun in her mind. But did she really have anything here to stay for?
In Mapleville, she was a better version of herself, living in a picture-perfect place. Her family loved and cherished her.
But what now? What was still missing from her life there?
She considered her next wish and found her thoughts taking her back to her improvisation in the ballroom, where she had truly felt seen. The imaginary flowers, the applause, receiving the pretend award.
And she wanted more of it.
‘For my third wish—’ Greta spoke aloud with determination ‘—I wish I had it all. I want my career to sparkle, just like it used to do. I want to be a star, with the world at my feet, to be adored, not forgotten.’
Then she drained the rest of the cup.
Perhaps because Greta still had some coffee in her system, or perhaps because the coffee was cold, or maybe because she’d added the Starbright, the effects came on faster this time.
A low hum began in her ears, building steadily until it resembled the drill of roadworks. She clutched the edge of the table, nauseous, as she felt herself slipping away once more.
Somewhere in the haze of shifting sights and sounds, she heard the coffee shop door fly open and hurried footsteps approaching her.
‘Greta.’ Iris’s voice flew at her, sharp and urgent. ‘What on earth have you done?’
But by then, it was too late.
The last thing Greta saw was the white rabbit on the coffee jar label—and it seemed to give her a frown.