Page 26 of A Snowfall of Silver

“Yes. Apparently Lewis Carroll based it on the treacle well at Binsey.”

“You can’t really think we’ll find a well full of treacle.”

“We’ll never know if we don’t look,” says Kit. “This feels like just the sort of morning when we might.”

“That’s true,” I agree. “All magical mists and trips through time.”

We reach the outskirts of the village and Kit leads the way towards the church. The path winds between the old gravestones, which erupt from the grass like teeth forming a jagged grin. The ground is carpeted in fallen brown leaves that crunch as we walk.

“There it is,” Kit gestures, and I’m surprised. I had expected a round structure above the ground. Instead, the stone well is a long rectangle cut into the earth, lined with white marble above light brick walls. It looks like one of the graves.

“St Margaret’s Well,” I read the inscription on the stone at the top.

“Patron saint of treacle, of course.”

I clamber down so that the stone walls of the well rise around me. In front of me, and beneath the stone bearing the saintly inscription, is a triangular gap, and under that is a small round hole. I peer into the damp darkness there. “No treacle, as far as I can see,” I sigh.

“Oh, well.” Kit reaches into his pockets. “We’ll have to make do with chocolate instead.” He breaks the bar in half and holds a piece out to me.

“Even better.” I climb back up and take it from him, perching on the edge of the well. He sits beside me, and the sleeve of his coat brushes against mine. I have a sudden, strange urge to rest my head on his shoulder. It must be because I’m so tired. Instead, I lift my eyes to the sky. It’s brightened up now, the sun having summoned the energy to burn away the morning mist. It’s going to be a nice day.

“Tell me about your writing,” I say. “When we met, on the train, you said you wanted to be a writer.”

Kit nods. “I do. I’ve been working on something for a while. I think it’s almost done.” He frowns. “Although it’s hard to know.”

“Have you shown it to anyone?”

“No. I keep thinking there will be a moment when I put a final piece of punctuation in place and then I can, you know, lay down my pen, finally satisfied … but that never seems to come. I think I could probably fool about with it for ever.”

“I don’t think you can wait for something to be perfect before you do something with it.” I chew thoughtfully on my chocolate. “It’s like a performance. You need the rehearsals to refine it.”

“When did you get to be so wise?” Kit asks, laughter rippling through his voice.

“Must be the magic properties of the treacle well.”

He smiles. “Must be.” A clock strikes in the distance, and I jump to my feet. “It’s eight o’clock! Nora wanted me today for Alma’s fitting.”

“Don’t worry,” Kit says, standing and stretching. “She’ll still be sound asleep.”

But I am already hurrying back down the path. “Come on!” I call over my shoulder. “We’ve got work to do!”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When we arrive back at Del’s house the place is no longer in slumber. In fact, it is wide awake and buzzing with activity. The delicious smell of sizzling bacon fills the air and there’s a great deal of clattering coming from the kitchen. This must be Del’s famous fry-up. My stomach growls happily. Man cannot live by bread and honey alone, and Kit’s chocolate has done little to dull the edge of my appetite.

“Where have you two been?” Viola appears in the hallway. I don’t remember seeing her at all last night, but I suppose she must have been at the party. Her face is a little pale, but other than that she looks no worse for wear. In fact, she looks charming, in a very stylish sapphire blue dress, her dark hair artfully mussed.

“Out for a walk,” Kit says.

“We saw the treacle well.” My voice is muffled as I unwind the scarf from my neck. “Sadly, treacle free.”

“You have mud on your coat,” Viola says and for a second I think she’s talking to me but then I realize her attention is focused on Kit. Somehow, from her, the words sound seductive. She puts out a delicate hand and brushes the lapels of his coat.

If I wasn’t so utterly stunned, I’d be impressed. Making mud sound suggestive is, after all, an impressive feat; I doubt even Greta Garbo could have done more with the subject matter.

Kit moves away slightly and shrugs his coat off. “That’s what coats are for,” he says easily.

Viola laughs softly and steps closer to him, their arms almost touching. Next to Kit she looks even smaller and daintier than usual. “You didn’t come and find me last night,” she says in a low voice, though not low enough to keep me from hearing.