Page 55 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

My stomach turned over at that.

When my father had told me that he was going to remarry, I had tried hard to believe that gaining two sisters would be wonderful. But I was soon proved wrong.

Cassie, overwhelmed by the new house and the new situation, had been largely silent. I remember only that her watchful eyes held mistrust whenever they came to rest on me or my father.

Agatha, though, had loved to torment me. At first the incidents had been small – a pin cushion slipped on to my seat, favourite toys going missing – but soon she had discovered a new game: telling tales.

She told Helena that I’d ripped her dress, that she saw me stealing tarts in the kitchen, that I’d pulled her hair, or that I’d knocked Cassie down. It didn’t matter that the stories weren’t true, because Helena believed them – or pretended that she did – and she doled out my punishments with an enthusiasm that bordered on glee. She began to whisper into my father’s ear about his wayward daughter, that I’d grown too wild after my mother’s death, that I’d been lacking a firm hand, that I needed discipline.

That had been a long time ago, but still Cassie’s words made me feel sick. It’s just a game to her. That was what I had felt – that Helena and Agatha got pleasure out of hurting me. As a child it had been bewildering; as an adult it made me furious.

Now, the games may be more civilized, they may lie beneath a veneer of snide society gossip, but Agatha was still playing her same tricks on Sophia, making her feel as small as possible. Well, I wouldn’t have it. It wasn’t only Helena I was planning to punish, I reminded myself. Agatha was going to get a taste of her own medicine, as well.

“Let’s go to the bookshop,” I said, slipping my arm through Sophia’s.

Sophia said nothing, but she squeezed my arm. I tried to remember that I wasn’t her friend. Not really.

Rochester was the same pretty town that I remembered, and we wound our way through the cobbled streets, the castle slipping in and out of view.

I had always loved the castle. It was perfect, neat and square, with four turrets, precisely as a child would imagine it. When Father would bring me into town, I used to pretend that I was a knight, off to rescue the princess from one of its towers.

As we wandered towards the bookshop I noticed a building several doors down with a shining brass plaque mounted on the wall.

J.F. Fortescue Esq.

Solicitor

I had a sudden memory of my father taking me through that front door. Of a room with a hard chair where I waited, bored, while Father conducted business. There was a smell of tobacco and leather, the rustle of paper, and several harried-looking young men rushing about with papers in their hands.

I glanced back at the door as we walked past it. My father’s solicitor. All the information I needed about his will was right there, and if I were Iris Scott-Holland I could just walk in and ask for it. I gnawed on my lip. There had to be another way.

When we pushed through the door to the bookshop a jaunty bell rang out. The inside of the shop was warm and quiet. There were long, tall shelves, creating a warren of books that seemed to stretch on for miles. In places where they had run out of space, the books were stacked up to the height of a person. It seemed Cassie had been speaking literally; you could really lose yourself in here.

In silent agreement the three of us split up, each wandering off to explore. I found myself searching for the romance novels. They were the only things keeping me awake long enough for my night-time snooping, after all.

The shop had a welcome stillness about it. That sometimes happened in rooms full of books. Strange, when each book, each page, each line was filled with a clamour of words and voices, that being in a room full of them should be so peaceful.

I ran my finger along the spines, searching for promising titles. The Game and the Candle – that sounded like it had potential.

I was too busy looking at the books to realize there was someone else in the aisle with me until I banged into him, quite hard.

“Oh, excuse me—” I began.

“My fault—” he said at the same time. And then we looked at one another.

It was Nick, of course.

“Are you following me?” I hissed, all of my frustration from the night before reaching an instant boiling point inside me.

He looked startled. “Of course not,” he replied, though I wasn’t sure if the words came a shade too quickly.

“You knew we were coming shopping today.” It is difficult to make your voice sharp and accusing when you are whispering, but I managed it all right.

“To the dressmakers’,” he pointed out.

I eyed him suspiciously.

“I didn’t follow you,” he said steadily.