Friday's Child Part 4

[naanaboat]

“You’ll never guess what I’ve found,” Joe was saying, too loud in the early morning haze. Callie blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. All she could think about was the dream, already fading away into nothing, and the mysteriously unbroken mirror. “I was searching on the internet, like you do, looking for something that might fit in with the jewellery search. I tried every keyword I could think of; I trawled through a million and one forums - nothing.

“But, I was about to log off and just go to bed - this was at half four - and I just found this title in one of the ‘Attic Finds’ forums. ‘Necklace, Mirror and Book found in Lower Whitley Town Street’ - a newspaper column from the 1950’s, all about these strange objects found in the old hat shop in this little village.”

“Fascinating,” Callie drawled, but her mind stuck on the word ‘book’. She’d heard that word recently - of course she had, she thought, rolling her eyes - but it was strange.  Warning bells were going off in her head. “Joe-”

Joe ignored her. “It didn’t really mention the mirror - other than to bemoan the state of it - but it said that the book was in some strange language, and the necklace ‘conjured up images of cornflowers’. That’s our necklace, Cal.”

Callie grinned, all warning bells forgotten. This could be it; the final piece of the puzzle. “Sounds like it is,” she said. “Anything else?”

A yawn cut her off - obviously Joe hadn’t yet gone to bed. “Actually, yes,” he said. “I searched the village - Lower Whitley. It’s a tiny place, straight out of an Enid Blyton story, if you ask me. Still holds village fêtes and the nearest supermarket’s five miles away. They’ve a used bookshop - which, miraculously, has a website with a full list of in-stock titles.”

“Let me guess,” Callie said, “They’ve got the book.”

“It certainly seems that way,” Joe yawned, “And the owner’s happy about keeping it on hold for the next few days, so we can see about it. Not that it’d sell anyway - they’ve had it since the fifties, collecting dust because nobody can figure out how to read it.”

Callie tried not to let that one point spoil it. Surely, she told herself, if the book was connected with the other objects, they wouldn’t have to read it. “So, daytrip?” she said.

“Daytrip,” Joe repeated. “Pack up the mirror and the ring, I’ll get the necklace sorted, and we’ll set off just as soon as I’ve had a nap.”

“Right then,” Callie said, already rummaging around her room for things she needed to take with her. Her eyes caught the mirror again, and she frowned into the phone. “Joe,” she said, “Is it normal for mirrors to unbreak?”

Joe sounded very puzzled, which wasn’t surprising. “How do you mean?”

Callie told him all she could remember about the dream - which, unfortunately, was not a lot. “And, anyway, I woke up this morning and it was fixed. One complete, unbroken, smooth glass mirror.”

“Weird.” Joe drawled the syllable, stretching it out. “Bring it anyway. We might need it if this book turns out to be the right one.”

“You’re going away?” Harry sounded disappointed, incredulous, and a little upset. He’d finally been allowed to go home that morning, and Callie felt incredibly guilty that she hadn’t visited him.

“Just for a couple of days,” she said, biting her lip. “You know the antiques dealer I told you about?”

Callie could hear his frown over the phone. “You’ve hardly known him a week,” he said, “He could be a murderer for all you know. I can’t believe you, Cal, just taking off halfway around the country on an antiques quest. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“I came round to visit the day before yesterday,” Callie said, “And anyway, Joe’s not a murderer.”

Well, Callie thought, he didn’t seem like a murderer. Okay, he was a little strange - and the first time they’d met, he’d flirted with her and forgotten his brother was dead - but he was all right once you got to know him.

“I still don’t like it,” Harry replied. “You’re my best friend - even though I’ve hardly heard from you since you got this new hobby.”

At that moment, Callie wanted nothing more than to drive over to Harry’s place and catch up with him; talk for hours at a time like they used to do. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll call you as soon as I get there - and probably in the car too, I promise.”

“You’d better do,” Harry warned her. “And, when you get back, we’re watching all six Ryan Drickstopp films back to back,” he threatened. “And you’re not allowed to comment on his abs.”

Ryan Drickstopp was the star of the Next Tomorrow films - a series Harry loved for its amazing plots and sheer number of explosions, and that Callie tolerated on the basis that the main characters were shirtless a lot. “Fine,” Callie said, feigning annoyance. She knew that, if that was Harry’s idea of punishment, that he wasn’t really that mad at her. “I’ll call you, and I’ll bring you sweets back. It’s a tiny little storybook village - there’s bound to be a ‘Ye Olde Sweetshoppe’ around there somewhere.”

“You’d better do,” Harry said, smiling through the phone. “Or else I’ll sic Bob on you.”

Callie frowned. “Bob?” she asked. “Bob as in the ‘fit nurse’ you were going to replace me with? ‘Six-foot-three with stubble and a six pack’?”

Harry laughed. “More like five-foot-ten with three cats and the best macaroni cheese recipe this side of Italy,” he said. “But if you don’t keep in touch, I’ll sic him on you, don’t think I won’t.”

“Okay,” Callie grinned. Outside, Joe was just pulling around the corner in an old, rust-coloured Mini. He saw her watching at the window and waved; Callie waved back. “I’d better go,” she said, “I’ll speak to you soon.”

“You’d better,” Harry replied. “In a bit, Cal.” It almost, maybe sounded like someone else, with a deep voice filled with laughter, yelled ‘bye’ as well. Maybe.

Callie called bye and slipped the phone into her pocket. Grabbing her bag, and the cardboard box containing the mirror, she checked that the ring was still on its chain around her neck - it was - and she headed outside to where Joe was leant against the side of his almost-antique car.

“Hey,” she said in greeting, gingerly placing the box on the floor. Joe immediately pushed off the car to pick it up, quickly glancing at the unbroken glass to see it for himself. “Is there space in the back for all this?”

Joe laughed, and opened the boot, which fell open to reveal a space large enough for at least one suitcase. It looked cramped, but it was surprisingly spacious. “You can fit a hell of a lot into a Mini,” he said, placing Callie’s bag into the boot and shutting it. He put the box containing the mirror on the backseat - “Easier to keep an eye on it,” he explained.

The drive was long and uneventful. Joe was not a very talkative driver, preferring instead to listen to music and nod along to the radio-friendly hits. Callie listened to the radio as well, and, for the first few miles, debated whether to sing along. On the one hand, the lyrics were incessant in her head; on the other, she didn’t know Joe’s opinion on car-singing. However, once Joe started singing along to Bohemian Rhapsody - “Everybody knows the words. Or, you know, at least the tune” - they were both content to sing along at will.

The radio in Joe’s Mini was old, and only picked up certain stations. Callie made it her mission to ensure it continued playing: she turned the dial every few miles when the signal faded and the songs were replaced by constant static, interrupted only by the occasional direction from the satnav on the dashboard.

“Joe,” Callie said after a while, once the car had left one motorway and was heading through an unfamiliar town. “Not to sound like a child or anything, but are we nearly there yet?”

Joe glanced at the satnav. “Not far off,” he said, sounding surprised. “Five miles or so, actually.” He looked over at her. “Have you got any more of those sweets?”

At the first petrol station they stopped at, Callie had bought a large packet of gummy bears, and two smaller bags of liquorice allsorts. “I’ve got green bears and the bobbly liquorice ones that no one likes,” she said, peering into the bags. “Want one?”

Joe took a handful of the green bears and shoved them all into his mouth at once. “Yum,” he said, “Tooth cavities packaged in teddy bear shapes.” Once he had finished chewing the sweets, he turned to Callie again.

“That mirror,” he said, turning onto a country road as the satnav indicated it. “You said you dreamed about it.”

“Yeah,” Callie said, “It was weird - this guy, Timothy or Trent or something, was telling me all about it. I can’t remember much, but I woke up and the mirror was fixed. That doesn’t usually happen, does it?”

Joe frowned. “Not usually,” he said, as the satnav pointed out a sharp right turn. “But it’s not too unusual. It sounds a bit like it’s a psychic echo, you know, like some of the jewellery.”

“I think he said something about a book,” Callie said, trying to remember more. It was like trying to carry water in cupped hands - as soon as she thought she had something, it would slip back through her fingers. “A book, necklace, mirror and a ring. An engagement ring, I think.”

Joe nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. It was a twisty, narrow path with steep grassy sides; the sort of country road that held bouquets of flowers at every bend. “We could be nearing the end of the puzzle, then,” he said. “That is, if this book is the right one.”

The village, when they finally reached it, was beautiful. Rows of neat stone cottages, with immaculate gardens filled with flowers of every colour, sat beside narrow roads, and a wooden signpost - “an actual, honest-to-god signpost, Callie!” - pointed out the Main Street, Lake and School. The rust-coloured Mini followed the winding road through the village, finally coming to a stop in the almost-empty car park of a medium-sized pub.

The Lucky Harlot Inn had bright blue shutters on its bottle glass windows, and a ‘Dogs And Families Welcome’ sign outside. There were window boxes filled with forget-me-nots and cornflowers, and a grass-lined path that lead to the main cobbled street.

“I’ve heard this name before,” Callie said, staring at the hand painted pub sign. “Lucky Harlot - it’s a beer, isn’t it?”

Joe grinned and pointed to the notice in the front window - ‘Birthplace of the Lucky Harlot Ale’ it read. “It’s a bit too bitter for my tastes,” he confessed. “Do you want a drink first, or should we head to the bookshop?”

Callie considered it for a moment. On the one hand, she was rather thirsty and, her stomach growled, quite hungry. On the other hand, though, it was quarter to five, and the bookshop was probably starting to close. “Books,” she said, “I need to find out if it’s the right one.”

The bookstore was a rundown shack of a place, with warped floorboards and grease-smudged, bottle glass windows. It smelled like books, Callie thought, as she and Joe stepped inside and the bell above the door chimed. Books and dust and dead things, with a lingering odour of fried breakfast, of all things.

“Afternoon.” The boy behind the counter couldn’t have been older than sixteen. He had lank blond hair to his narrow shoulders, and paper-white skin that stretched thinly over bluish veins. His eyes were narrowed into a scowl, as if he couldn’t believe someone would disturb the sanctity of the bookshop, especially so close to closing time, which, as advertised on the hand-printed sign, was five fifteen. “Can I help you?”

“Hey,” Joe said, eyes scanning the room, taking in the tall bookshelves and the dust motes that hovered in the streaks of sunlight that trickled through the dirty glass. “Is Frank here? I emailed him this morning - it’s about a book.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “And I thought you were here about a kitten,” he murmured under his breath, hastily shoving a bookmark between the pages of the ratty paperback he was reading. “I’ll go check.” He stayed where he was, though, angling his head to the side and yelling: “Zoe! Is your dad about? We’ve got a couple of customers asking ‘bout him.”

A series of heavy footsteps echoed through the shop, and then another teenager appeared behind the desk. This one had short black hair that, judging by the coppery roots, was obviously the product of a bottle, and she wore a tight black tee shirt and numerous plastic wristbands. “He’s at the lake,” Zoe said, “But if you were emailing, you were probably talking to me. Dad can’t even find the on-switch on his laptop. Joe, right?” She turned to Joe. “You’re the ones asking about the nonsense book, aren’t you?”

“That’s us,” Joe said. “Can we have a look?”

Zoe nodded, and disappeared behind the curtain, which clattered noisily. Callie glanced back at the other boy, whose nose was yet again buried in his novel. The cover was bent and worn, but she could just make out the word ‘Whitley’ in an old-fashioned script on the spine. “What are you reading?”

The boy sighed loudly, as if he was deeply annoyed by the interruption. “Twilight,” he said, in a monotone that was as impressive as it was annoying. “My love for sparkling vampires knows no bounds.”

Callie arched an eyebrow. “Really?”

At that moment, Zoe reappeared, gingerly carrying a shoebox. “Alfie’s an idiot,” she said fondly, placing the box on the counter and narrowly avoiding a slap from her friend. “He’s a proper bookworm, but I can’t convince him to read anything written in the last ten years.”

“I read tonnes of modern stuff!” Alfie hissed, closing his book with a snap. The front cover, though still worn, was not quite as damaged as the spine, and Callie could make out the words ‘A Brief History of Whitley and its Surrounding Areas’. The book looked to be around seven hundred pages - ‘Brief’ was obviously not the operative word.

“It’s not my fault that I prefer the classics. And anyway,” Alfie continued, slightly less violently and with a hint of pink to his cheeks, “I work in an old bookshop. There’s no point being an expert on 21st century fiction when most of the stuff we sell was published before the First World War.”

“Guys,” Zoe said, lifting the lid from the shoebox. Inside, there were three books, leather-bound and ancient-looking. The note taped to the inside of the lid identified them as ‘Weirdo Spell Book’, ‘Old Romance Novel’ and ‘Stupid Unreadable Thing’.

“Not a fan of the Dewey Decimal System, I see,” Joe said. He was met by silence, and so cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m guessing I’m after the ‘Stupid Unreadable Thing’, then.”

“It’s both stupid and unreadable,” Alfie muttered darkly, his nose yet again deep in the book. “It’s not in another language, it’s just...”

“Stupid?” Callie filled in, smiling. The cover of the book was dusty, but it was inset with greenish stones and an embossed, curling ‘C’. The pages, from what she could see, were yellowed with age. “I think that’s it,” she whispered to Joe. “I don’t know why, it just feels right.”

Joe smiled. “How much for the unreadable book?”

Zoe smiled back, and leafed through the handwritten ledger on the desk. Her smile faltered, though, and she blinked a few times before telling them.

“Ninety five,” she said, tracing along the line with a badly-painted fingernail to check the price again. “Which is, like, at least double the usual maximum price,” she muttered, frowning. “Maybe I should get my dad - he’ll know.”

Alfie looked up from his own book again. “What do you want it for, anyway?” he asked, narrowing his eyes. “You won’t be able to read it, and it’ll collect just as much dust wherever you put it as it would if we left it in the shoebox.”

“Actually,” Callie opened her mouth to explain, but Alfie shook his head.

“You’re not art students, are you?” he asked, the distain clear in his voice. “Let me tell you now, there is no way on this earth I’m letting you chop up and defile any book - not even a stupid one like this.” He crossed his arms. “I don’t care if it is for some piece on the fragility and nonsense of the human soul, or the terrors of materialism or whatever - rule one of the bookshop is ‘We Don’t Destroy Books, Ever’.”

Zoe rolled his eyes. “Yeah,” she said, “and rule two of the bookshop is ‘We Don’t Talk About The Bookshop’. Though, I have to say, a hundred quid’s a bit steep for an art project.”

“We’re not art students,” Callie said. “We’re-” She glanced at Joe, unsure as to whether he would want the ‘magic jewellery that may or may not link to the nonsense book’ explanation to be told to other people. At his shrug, she continued.

“Have you ever heard of possessed necklaces?” she said, keeping her face neutral. Zoe blinked at her, but Alfie nodded, a grin stretching over his face.

“Travellers Keepsakes were mentioned a few times in here,” he said, gesturing to his book. “Sailors and explorers used to trap tiny amounts of their souls into pieces of jewellery for their loved ones,” he explained, hands waving animatedly. “They used to be pretty common - well, not common,” he corrected, “but not uncommon, either.” He frowned. “What’s that got to do with the nonsense book, though?”

Callie told them the abridged version of Nana Lillian’s ring, the earthquake necklace and the mirror, but glossed over the dreams. The teenagers seemed interested enough in the supernatural side of things, but Callie didn’t think they’d be able to comprehend the magic mirror that communicated through dreams. “...we think the book might be the final piece of the puzzle,” she finished. “It was found in the same place, and it’s got the same design.” Again, she didn’t tell them that the man in her dream had mentioned a book.

Zoe didn’t look quite convinced, but Alfie was hurriedly leafing through the giant book, eyes skimming the pages. “Right,” Zoe said, a frown pulling at her features.”I’ll tell you what. You’re staying at the Lucky Harlot, right?”

“Yeah,” Joe replied.

“I think you’re a few sandwiches short of a picnic,” she said, “but either Alfie’s turned into the super reading machine again, or he thinks you’re onto something. So, I’ll lend you the book and let you see if it does some magic when you put it with the rest of your magic stuff.”

Callie blinked. “Seriously?” she said, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “That’s brilliant, thank you!”

Zoe held out the book, but kept her fingers tightly gripped on the spine. “I want a deposit, though. Fifty quid.”

Joe searched through his wallet and retrieved two crumpled twenties and a ten. “We’ll bring it back tomorrow, I promise,” he said, clutching the book. “You’re brilliant, the pair of you. Thanks.”

“Hey,” Alfie said, as they were about to leave. “If you can read the book, you’d better let me know what it says.” He closed his own book with a snap, and sighed wistfully. “The number of hours I spent with that book, trying to figure out what on earth it said - I’ve still got the folders of codes and possible starting points...”

“He was a strange kid,” Zoe interrupted with a smile. “But, like he said, we’ve been trying to figure out what the book says since we first learnt to read.”

The Lucky Harlot inn was a quaint little place, packed full of oddments and trinkets. The deep blue carpet was sticky with beer in some places and worn through in others, and each velvet booth was speckled with cigarette burns. Not one of the interior walls was straight - the brickwork was curved and warped with age - and the whole place had that wholly familiar smell of home cooking, strong beer and cigarettes, despite the plastic ‘No Smoking’ signs that were hung above the bar.

Callie had ordered cheese on toast for herself and Joe, which the landlady - a fifty-something woman called Betty - had insisted upon bringing up to their room.

“You look tired, love,” Betty had said, raising an eyebrow when Callie’s protests were interrupted by a huge yawn. “How about you and your boyfriend get settled in your room, and I’ll bring your dinners up in ten?”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Callie had said, “But yeah, that would be brilliant.”

Betty had winked conspiratorially. “Okay love. But you don’t have to pretend - as long as you’re not going at it as loud as you can at three in the morning, nobody round here gives a monkeys if you’re married or not. You’re such a lovely couple, too,” she’d added, “I don’t know why you both keep pretending you’re not together - your boyfriend, he was absolutely adamant you didn’t want a double bed, even though I kept telling him it was just as cheap as a twin room.”

“That’s because we’re not together,” Callie said. “We’re just friends.” She had blanched, then, as Betty’s words registered in her brain. “Wait - you did book us a twin room, right?”

Betty had, reluctantly at least, booked them a twin room. There was a note on the dressing table, next to where Joe had placed the box containing the mirror. The beds are on castors, so it’ll be easier for you to push them together if you want. Also, we have chocolates, strawberries and that fizzy wine stuff in if you want to order anything romantic - Betty.

“She’s insistent, you’ve got to give her that,” Joe said, taking a huge bite of his cheese toastie. There was a mound of soggy but delicious chips beside it, and ketchup that had been artfully squeezed into a heart. “You getting anywhere with the book?”

Callie looked up from the strange writing and rubbed at her eyes. “Nothing,” she said, her annoyance and disappointment growing by the second. The book had yet to reveal anything but strange squiggles unlike any text she’d ever seen before. Its pages hadn’t even rustled when she placed it beside the mirror, necklace and ring: it was as if it wasn’t part of the puzzle at all.

“Oh,” Joe yawned. “I’m just gonna close my eyes for a few minutes - all that driving is catching up on me.”

Callie waved her hand distractedly. The book was driving her insane - yet she was absolutely certain it was the right one. The swirling ‘C’ on the cover was identical to the ones engraved in the jewellery, and every time she held her hand over its pages, she could feel a small thrum of energy. “Come on,” she muttered. “Do something!”

The book, predictably, ignored her. It lay on the thick carpet, its cover leaving a thin sheen of dust on the fibres. Dust particles swam in the air above it, filling the room with the unmistakable scent of old books. Beside it, the mirror - still unbroken - reflected the orange-tinged light from the bedside lamp.

Callie closed her eyes and held the heels of her hands to her face. It was all she could do to stop the tears of frustration welling in the corners of her eyes - she was tired and nothing was going right.

Opening her eyes, she glanced into the mirror. From the angle it was placed, she could see a large portion of the room: the tacky, orange and grey flowered wallpaper; the blue bedspread and clumsily framed photographs. There was a small stack of cheap romance novels beside the bed, and a jar of ancient potpourri, dust-clogged and decaying. Her phone sat beside them, where she’d left it after calling Harry to reassure him that she hadn’t been murdered, and, stretched out on the bed, was Joe.

His face looked younger in sleep - the small creases smoothed out, and his dark lashes fanned out against the pale skin of his cheeks. Soft snores echoed from his mouth, and the fingers of his left hand unconsciously clutched at the edge of the bedspread. He was still fully clothed - only his jacket was draped over the back of the desk chair - and his right hand was tangled in the leather string of his necklace.

The strange thing was, though - or, not so strange, Callie thought, considering the past week or so - was the silver pendant. It was glowing; the engraved tree emitting slightly more light than if it was just merely reflecting the lamp. Joe was wrong, it seemed: his brother was still looking out for him.

Callie smiled softly and directed her attention back to the book. It was still not revealing anything other than strange symbols that filled up the cream-coloured pages with age-faded ink. She let out a loud sigh, her breath dislodging a few of the last stubborn blue particles from the mirror. Callie watched in horror as the specks floated through the air and landed smack-bang on the middle of the page. It looked like she’d dropped a biro on the paper - the colour was spreading, bleeding through the paper in tiny, spidery blue veins.

She screwed up her eyes and tried to remember how to breathe - the book was ruined. There was no way that Zoe at the book shop wouldn’t notice the damage - especially since the colour kept running, and had nearly drawn its way across the whole of the page.

She cursed, loudly, and the noise of it was enough to wake Joe from his nap.

“What’s up, Callie-California?” he asked, voice clogged with sleep. Callie turned towards him; his necklace was no longer glowing, but it looked stronger, brighter almost.

“The book,” Callie said faintly. “Some blue powder got on it - I think it was on the mirror - but it has spread across the paper and I didn’t mean to, I promise.” She held up the book with a grimace.

Joe frowned. “There’s nothing there,” he said. “Just the writing that, I assume, you’re no closer to decoding.”

Callie looked at the book: Joe was right. The strange, cornflower-blue lines had vanished, leaving the paper the same creamy-white colour it had been before. “I don’t understand,” she said, but at that moment, her eyes were drawn to the mirror. In its reflection, an identical Callie held an identical book - only hers, it seemed, was in plain English. The words were old-fashioned, but readable - it seemed to be some kind of romance novel.

“Joe,” she said, her eyes fixed on the mirror. “You need to see this - come over here.”

Joe slid to the end of the bed, and in the mirror, an identical Joe joined identical-Callie and the book. “What?” he said, before he noticed the book in the mirror. “That is strange,” he muttered, shifting closer to the mirror. “It’s... a story.

Callie’s eyes flickered over the story, skimming the text to see if there was anything of value. When nothing popped out at her, she flicked back to the front page and noticed, for the first time, the dedication that was written there.

My dearest C, it read, in a clumsy hand. Remember our first meeting? You were reading a story very much like this one - it wouldn’t surprise me if it was the very same tale! - and, since I lost your original copy (a million apologies for that), I hope that you will enjoy this one much the same. - Yours forever, T.

“Interesting,” Callie said, though she was beginning to lose interest in the whole book. She had almost expected the whole magic-jewellery story to be contained within it, not some silly romance novel. She made to shut the book, but Joe stopped her.

“Wait!” he said, pointing to a very faded, almost illegible scrawl on the bottom of the page. “There’s something else.”

He took the book from her, and read it, keeping his eyes locked on the mirror. “There's naught save reeds and fishes beneath the lake so blue. Thick with mud and still as the grave, keep mine secret true - well, what do you think it means?”
“It means, some guy from a million years ago thought he was a poet,” Callie yawned, scratching at the corners of her eyes. “But, you know, you should write it down. See if that Alfie kid knows anything about it.”

Joe was already scribbling something onto the back of an old envelope, tongue poking through his teeth in concentration. Callie heaved herself up onto the furthest bed and let the world around her - orangey grey sixties wallpaper included - carry her into sleep.

The dream, when it swirled into her head in a mass of cornflower blue, took place on a cobbled street not dissimilar to the main street of Lower Whitley. The sky was awash with the blazing red of dawn, and the air was crisp and chilled to the bone. Callie watched silently, as if she was encased inside a bubble. A short, rotund man, with orange hair and a rather magnificent moustache, marched down the middle of the street, a stout walking cane in his hand.

“Good-for-nothing little errand boy,” the man spat, face scrunching into a scowl. “Thinks he can steal my daughter and get away with it - I’ll be the judge of that.” He reached up and hammered loudly on the door of what Callie instantly knew was the bakery. “Watson!” he bellowed, his voice surprisingly powerful. “Thomas Watson - open this door, right now!”

Callie watched, unable to move or speak, as the door was opened by none other than the boy from the mirror. His face was ashen and he looked close to death. She couldn’t hear what he said, but saw the anger on the other man’s face; the way he crowded close and yelled. Choice phrases kept invading her ears - engaged... nothing... no way on this earth - and then, just as the red-headed man’s voice lowered to a dangerous level, the bubble Callie was encased in popped with a sudden, loud explosion.

She was on a riverbank; a lakeside, where the bright green spring grass carpet stretched for miles, interspersed with wildflowers and tall, reaching oak trees. Beside the bright blue, deep-as-anything lake, a boy - Tommy, the boy from the mirror - stood with a wicker basket of bric-a-brac beside his feet. Next to him was a girl Callie had seen many times but never noticed; a girl with eyes of the brightest cornflower blue and hair the colour of strong coffee.

“We shouldn’t... your father...” Tommy was saying, his voice low so as to not be overheard. The girl beside him - whose name, Callie knew at once, was Clara - smiles and reached out her hand. Their fingertips brushed together.

“What my father doesn’t know cannot hurt him,” she whispered, and just like that, the pair of them were holding hands, standing by the edge of the lake on a crisp spring morning.

Then Callie blinked and found herself stood in the middle of the cobbled street again. This time, the sun was high in the sky and baking down on the tiny village. Stalls were set up in the middle of the street, piled high with wares. Each shop front - for the street was lined with a variety of shops, from the milliner’s to the bakery - was bright and gleaming, with goods on display. There were dozens of people outside, dashing from stall to stall with arms laden down with shopping baskets. The girl from earlier - Clara - was stood by a stall that displayed yard after yard of fabric in every colour of the rainbow.

A few stalls away, there was a small commotion - Thomas had tripped, sending a stack of books flying into another stall. He was picking himself up, each movement moving him closer to another pile of badly-balanced oddments - but his smile was still blinding.

“Clara,” he said, noticing her. “I have... this is for you.” He passed her a small, folded piece of paper, the edges worried and crumpled. “You’ll need a mirror.”

Clara smiled, her lips curving jovially. “I know,” she said, “I have to collect some bread tomorrow morning?” Callie knew in an instant that this wasn’t just the recital of some shopping list - there was a clandestine courting operation going on, disguised as errands that needed to be run.

Thomas grinned, his eyes sparking in the sunlight. “I’ll be there.”

Callie continued to dream about Thomas and Clara; she watched them meet on hillsides and in crowded taverns. She saw Thomas present the ring - Nana Lillian’s ring - to Clara; she saw the two of them talking furtively, heads bent close together as Thomas lay sick. She saw Clara sitting alone in a highly furnished room, a table piled with a book, mirror, necklace and mirror beside her. That was from Afterwards, Callie knew - the dried tear tracks on the girl’s face showed it, as did the way her hand shook as it picked up the necklace. Again from Afterwards, Callie saw Clara sat beside another young man. This one was handsome, his face still plump from childhood, but his posture held regally. They talked like old friends: Callie could see a history between them, but there was nothing romantic about the way their hands clasped together on the bench.

Suddenly, she was back on the cobbled street again; the sky still painted a livid red. The orange-haired man was grinning manically, but there was no sign of Thomas - except the pile of objects stacked in the doorway. Callie watched as the man bent to pick up all three - mirror, book and necklace - then, almost as an afterthought, he snagged a small stone and slipped it into his pocket.

She stood stock-still with fear, watching as the man began striding back up the cobbled street. His shoes clipped loudly on the ground, and his breath, when he passed close to her, was stale and sour.

Callie woke with a start. There was a loud, insistent pounding on the door, matching the raging pounding in her head. She sat up and blinked, looking around the unfamiliar room. It seemed brighter - the sun streaming through the open window was probably a large factor in that - and there was a notebook with a few scribbled pages lying haphazardly on the dressing table.

The knocking continued. Callie scratched the sleep crystals from the corners of her eyes, noting with dismay that she was still fully dressed - despite the pyjamas she’d thrown into her bag. Her tee shirt was crumpled, and she seemed to be missing a sock. She slipped off the bed and opened the door.

“I didn’t wake you both, did I love?” It was Betty, the landlady of the pub. Her hair was in curlers and she wore a brightly coloured, heinously patterned smock. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that we’re serving breakfast in twenty minutes.” She poked her head through the door to peer around the room, and shook her head sadly. “Did you not get the note about the beds? We don’t really abide by those ‘not before marriage’ rules that most of the Bed and Breakfasts around here do - you needn’t have slept on separate beds.”

“We’re not together,” Callie murmured blearily. “He’s my cousin,” she lied. From the room, there was a sudden coughing fit that Callie knew was disguising a laugh. Betty’s face fell, and a livid blush spread across her cheeks.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she gushed, hand flying to her mouth. “You should have said - I could have put you in separate rooms...”

“It’s okay,” Callie said, trying to hide her own laugh. “We’re close - just not like that.” She closed the door and perched on the end of the nearest bed. Joe poked his head out from beneath the covers, the corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter.

“Callie-California,” he said, attempting - and failing - to keep a straight face. “Did your mother never tell you that you shouldn’t tell lies?”

Callie raised an eyebrow. “We should probably head off to the bookshop and get your money back,” she said, but the loud grumble from her stomach interrupted her sentence. “Or,” she added, “We could get breakfast and then return the book.”

“Breakfast sounds good,” Joe replied, his fingers unconsciously brushing at the pendant of his necklace. “Though, I’m not sure we’ll be getting the money back. I was doing some research...”

“There are skeletons at the bottom of the lake,” Joe said as they made their way down the cobbled street towards the bookshop. He had a piece of toast in his mouth and a polystyrene cup of coffee in his hand. “Like, literal and metaphorical - that’s what the poem means. If I had to guess, that’s where the final piece of the puzzle is - the last ‘C’. It’s in the lake.”

“You worked this out with the book?” Callie asked. She was secretly impressed - and only a little jealous.

Joe shook his head, spraying toast crumbs everywhere. “No, I emailed Zoe, who emailed Alfie,” he said, “who told me about this weird legend.” He took a sip of coffee, and Callie waited for him to continue.

“Which was...?” she prompted after a few seconds. Joe blinked.

“Oh, right. Well, there was a warlock or something - way back when there were still warlocks - and he moved to the village with his daughter. She fell in love with the baker’s son, but when he asked her to marry him, the warlock got angry and turned him into a mirror.”

“A mirror?” The story felt wrong, Callie thought, but it felt right as well. She had the mirror - but then, if that was it, then there was no need for them to have collected the other objects.

“Alfie said there were different versions,” Joe continued. “Some people say mirror, others books or necklaces or something. Anyway, the warlock’s daughter spent ages looking in the mirror - or reading the book - and eventually went mad and killed herself, so she could be with her boyfriend.”

Callie sipped at her own coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned her tongue. “Nice legend,” she muttered.

Joe ignored her comment. “Except, her fiancé - she got engaged to her best friend at that point - he was convinced that the warlock had killed her and hidden her body at the bottom of the lake. So, he had the warlock tried as, well, a warlock - but his dying words were something like, ‘There’s nowhere as safe as the bottom of the lake.’”

“So?” Callie said. It was a legend - a legend that seemed to fit with everything they’d found out - but a legend all the same. “Why won’t we be able to get the money back for the book?”

They had reached the bookshop, with its bottle glass window displaying stacks of ancient, leather bound books. The card in the door said ‘closed’, but Joe knocked anyway.

“Because we need to put it in the lake,” he said softly, watching as a shadowy figure made its way through the shop. “The book, the mirror, the necklace and the ring - they all need to go in the lake.” The door opened before Callie could respond.

Zoe stood in the doorway, her short hair mussed and her makeup smudged across her eyes. “It’s early,” she muttered, but held the door open anyway. “Alfie’s been chattering all night about this book and your strange legend thing.”

“About that,” Joe said, biting his lip. “I have a feeling we’re going to need both of you. Are you free to go down to the lake?”

Zoe raised an eyebrow and eyed the coffee cup in Callie’s hand. “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you going to give me your coffee?” She took the polystyrene cup from Callie’s hand and drained it, wiping her hand across the back of her mouth. “Please tell me you’ve not decided you can do magic.”

“No magic,” Joe said. “Well, sort of. It’s more of a restoration thing. I’m not a hundred percent sure it’ll work, though. I’m not even sure that there’s anything for it to work, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t,” Zoe said with a frown. “And there’s no way I’m just going to let you throw a very valuable book into the lake. No way.”

The surface of the lake was still and calm - a wide, deep expanse of perfect blue that stretched from the balding grass to the cloudless sky. Beside it, a few strong trees, their branches outstretched, waved in a miniscule breeze.

“This had better work,” Callie said, glaring at Joe. The gemstones on her Nana Lillian’s ring were cutting into the palm of her hand as she gripped it tightly, almost afraid to let it go.

Joe gulped, and his concentration wavered for a second. The silver necklace he was attempting to pick up with a pair of tweezers slithered back into its box. “It should do,” he replied, though his voice wasn’t as strong as it usually was. “I mean, I’m working on guesswork alone. I told you before, there are no certainties - especially when we’re dealing with the long dead.”

Beside her, Alfie swallowed nervously. “So what - we could just be dumping hundreds of pounds worth of antiques into a lake?” His grip on the nonsense book tightened, knuckles turning white. “Even if it does set a couple of ghosts free, I think it’s a bad idea.”

Callie bit her lip. The stories had been plaguing her for weeks. She’d spent a lot of money on the mirror - much more than she should have done - and though she was eager to discover the final part of the puzzle, the fact that it might not even work was irritating. “We need to do this,” she said finally, keeping her eyes on Joe. “For Tommy and Clara. The milliner’s daughter and the errand boy deserve a proper happy ending.”

Joe met her eyes with a frown. “And if it doesn’t work?”

“We try again,” Callie said, trying to keep her voice level. “I try again, and risk losing more money, or we give up and accept failure.”

On Joe’s other side, Zoe let out a snort. “You didn’t even know them,” she said. “None of us did. Why are we doing this?”

The barely-there breeze began to intensify, snatching yellowing leaves from a couple of the trees and creating spreading ripples across the lake. “Because they’ve been in my head,” Callie replied. “I’ve seen them; I’ve spoken to them. They were just kids who should have been together for the rest of their lives. Forces they didn’t even understand tore them apart - and we might just have the key to bringing them back together.”

“You’re crazy,” Zoe muttered, but Callie noticed that she didn’t relinquish her hold on the frame of the mirror. “Okay, let’s do this. On three...”

Callie nodded and edged closer to the lake. The ring in her hand almost felt as if it was pulsing; a tiny heartbeat that was speeding up the closer it got to the water. It was probably just her pulse, she thought.

Though it only took a few seconds at most, the countdown dragged infinitely. Each millisecond ticked like a million years, until, finally, someone said ‘three’. Callie let go of the ring and watched as it toppled through the chilly air and fell, with a louder-than-expected splash, into the deep blue water. It sank slowly, as if it was drifting through treacle; beside her, the mirror and necklace were falling at the same rate, glinting brightly where the sunlight hit them.

The book, though, was floating inexplicably, but its pages crumpled as the water lapped against them, until finally it began to sink towards the depths.

“What now?” Alfie was sat back on his heels, staring forlornly as the corpse of the unreadable book drifted into darkness. “What happens now?”

Callie looked up. Her hand felt unusually cold and still bore the pinkish marks where the stones from the ring had cut into the flesh. “I don’t know,” she said softly, peering out across the expanse of water. “We could wait...”

They waited. The four of them clustered together on the side of the lake; stood in silence as one minute became two became ten. Alfie and Zoe wandered away after a few more minutes, offering excuses about the shop needing to be opened, but Callie and Joe remained on the bank, eyes searching for figures that were becoming more and more unlikely to materialise. Joe’s fingers found hers and they twined together, a gesture of hope and friendship and maybe, if the way the pad of his thumb was brushing against the back of her hand, something more.

Somewhere in the distance, a church clock chimed the hour, breaking the silence that had befallen the lake. “Nothing’s happened,” Joe whispered, his breath warm on the side of her face. “Maybe nothing will happen.”

“I really thought it would work,” Callie replied, surprised to feel hot tears starting to roll down her cheeks. “I really wanted it to work.”

“Me too.” Joe’s fingers tightened around hers for a second, before falling to his side. He offered her a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and brushed the few tears away with his thumb. “Come on - we should probably head back now.”

Callie didn’t feel like leaving the lake side, but the chances of anything happening were slim to none. “Okay,” she said softly, kicking at a pile of pebbles that had clustered on the edge of the lake. One of them was small and smooth, about the same size as a pound coin. From the right angle, in the right light, Callie thought it could almost resemble a heart.

The almost heart-shaped pebble sliced through the air when she kicked it, travelling almost to the centre of the lake before falling down, down into the dark blue water. The ripples it sent out were larger than usual and splashed against the edges of the lake. Then, something strange happened.

The ground beneath Callie’s feet began to shake, and she grasped at Joe’s hand. “What’s going on?” she asked, panicked, before a vision of thousands upon thousands of cornflowers filled her head. The flowers cleared in a second, slipping from her brain like sand through fingers or hazy smoke through air.

“Callie, look!” Joe was pointing out across the lake, where two hazy, ghostly figures had appeared. They were standing close: one tall and scruffily dressed with a woollen scarf wrapped around his neck, the other in a cornflower blue gown. “Is that them?”

“I think so,” Callie breathed, unable to take her eyes off the ghostly figures. They were fading fast as the sunlight shone down on them, but they looked happy. They looked free.

The errand boy and the milliner’s daughter, she thought, tangling her fingers with Joe’s. Together again, at last. Forever.

“... And then they just disappeared, like fog or something,” Callie said into the phone, sneaking a glance at Joe as they drove down motorway after motorway.

On the other end of the line, Harry yawned. “You’re crazy,” he said, but there was a hint of a smile in his voice. Even if he didn’t believe her, Callie was sure he wasn’t mad. “So, are you and the creepy antiques dealer on your way home?”

“He’s not creepy,” Callie hissed, mindful of the way Joe’s head jerked up at her words. “He’s Joe. He’s... nice.”

“He’s nice?” Harry parroted, grin evident through the phone. “Aww, has Callie got a crush? Do I need to find some sick bags?”

Callie shook her head and shovelled another handful of sweets into her mouth. “It’s not a crush,” she said, keeping her voice down. Thankfully, Joe was engrossed in the radio - he’d managed to find a station with only minimal feedback that was playing the greatest hits of Queen. “It’s... um, well...”

“Did you sleep with him?”

Callie blinked. She could feel the blush creeping up her cheeks, and prayed to every deity that Joe couldn’t hear her conversation. “Not yet?” she said. “Maybe sometime in the future. I... I kind of like him. A lot.”

“I do need to find some sick bags,” Harry said under his breath. “Anyway, are you coming round tomorrow night? Band dinner party - me and you, Brad, Kathy, Jem-” He pitched his voice lower, “-and Bob. You in?”

Callie grinned. “Bob? Five-foot-ten with three cats and the best recipe for macaroni cheese in the world? That Bob?”

“He’s cooking, so yes,” Harry replied. It sounded, somehow, like he was blushing. “Anyway, are you in? Joe can come too, if you want.”

Callie glanced around the car: the empty box on the back seat; the empty bags of sweets on the dashboard. The radio was flickering between Best Of Queen and some classical station, and there was an unmistakable odour of fast food in the air. The chain around her neck was conspicuously light: the ring pendant that used to belong to her Nana Lillian was now resting at the bottom of a lake in the countryside. It was strange, but at that moment, as she talked to her best friend and sat on the brink of what might just be a brand new relationship, she was the happiest she’d been in weeks.

“Of course,” she said. “Like I’d miss out on an opportunity to meet the famous Bob. I’ve heard so much about him...”

Ryan Bentley - Lord Bentley, to his contemporaries - sat at the edge of the lake and looked out over its icy surface. The trees in the distance were completely devoid of leaves; their bare skeletons waving in the light breeze. He had not spoken to anyone in weeks, and his letters home were barely a dozen words long. His best friend, his Clara, was gone. She had disappeared, much the same as her fiancé, Thomas Watson.

They were both at the bottom of the lake, Ryan knew. Well, he assumed at least. Clara would not have run - besides, she’d left her engagement ring and necklace behind. The ring, an ugly, handmade circlet of silver, was clutched in his palm, its stones cutting into the fleshy skin there.

In the distance, a church bell tolled, signalling that Mister Friday the milliner had drawn his last breath. Ryan couldn’t bear to watch - even if the man was a cruel, murderous warlock, he was still an old friend. Instead, he watched as a pair of swans, inexplicable in their appearance, danced atop the not yet frozen lake. Among the trees on the other side, a young couple walked, arm in arm. Ryan recognised them, vaguely, as the young woman from the book shop and her gardener fiancé - though he had not spoken to them, he had overheard the village gossip mill on the latest romances.

Heavy footfalls on the frozen ground signalled the arrival of another. Ryan looked up purely on instinct, blinking in shock when he recognised the young man from back home. His shock of ginger hair was well known throughout Drigworth - as was his tendency to make purring noises when tired or particularly bored.

“Buttercup,” Ryan said, without any trace of emotion. His throat was sore from not speaking for so long.

The man - Samuel Spencer, whose only real claim to fame was spending a week as a tabby kitten after a run-in with the now-late Mister Friday - laughed humourlessly, as if sick of the joke. “You’ve been gone from Drigworth a long time, Bentley. We were all wondering when you’d be returning.”

Ryan looked out over the icy blue lake again, with its reeds and perfect reflection of the cloudy sky. “Soon,” he said finally, giving the ring in his hand one final squeeze before slipping it into the pocket of his overcoat. “I should probably have Clara’s affairs taken care of first...”

“Let someone else do it,” Samuel said. Then, his voice grew softer. “Come home. We miss you.”

“You miss me?” Ryan repeated, allowing a small smile to form on his lips. The weight of a gloved hand on his shoulder was unexpected but not unwelcome, and when he muttered the affirmative, Samuel Spencer’s mouth was just a fraction too close to his ear to be entirely proper.

The lake held secrets, Ryan had heard many times. Secrets and bodies: its icy depths held everything, yet its smooth, mirror-like surface revealed nothing. He took one last look at the beautiful, dangerous water, and stood up, turning towards the village. “Let’s go home, then,” he said softly, his boots crunching on the frosty ground as he left Lower Whitley - and Clara - behind.