Page 69

I checked my pin watch. Half past three.

Mr. Owen should still be in the shop. I left my valise in the car and set off to find my erstwhile employer. The back gate creaked as I closed it behind me. My swimming pool sparkled invitingly in the cool late-winter sun. It was far too cold for a swim, but the jade tiles were so pretty in the water. Like little jewels glinting in the sun. My housekeeper Mrs. Penrose must have been hard at work while I was away, for there were several new clay pots with various types of flora replacing the ones I’d forgotten to water and let die in the fall. She was ever so fond of plants, while I could scarcely keep myself alive.

What was I thinking, bringing a child into this household?

I gave my head a shake and slipped through the side gate into the narrow lane connecting the mews to the street out front. The high bricked walls on either side were now as familiar as the bookshop itself. How many times I’d trod this path on my way to open the shop in the morning. I trailed my fingers along the wall—humming. Contented. An odd sensation considering all that had come to pass. I’d not seen my mother—but for the first time in a very long time I had hope. Hope one day we would be together again.

I stepped out onto the street and turned to the bookshop Mr. Owen and I ran together and let out an audible gasp. I stared at the glass shop-front window for several seconds, struggling to make sense of the freshly painted gold lettering: VAUGHN BOOKS, the words replacing the flaking OWEN AND SONS lettering that had been there when I set out on this trip.

I hurried to the front door, determined to find out what the devil had gotten into Mr. Owen to cause him to rename the bookshop. But the door was closed tight, and the wooden sign had been flipped, indicating the shop was closed for the day.

“What utter nonsense…” I glanced in through the glass but it was dark and the window display was devoid of any of my cats, who had taken to sunbathing there in the afternoons.

I huffed out a breath, returned to the townhome, and struggled to let myself in. The front door lock always stuck this time of year—as if the house simply didn’t think it worth going out and about before late March at the very earliest and preferred we all stay home, dry and warm. A thought I shared at this very moment.

“Morning, Miss Vaughn!” our neighbor Mrs. Trimble called out from across the street. I lifted my hand in a semblance of a greeting and resumed struggling with the lock before putting my hip into it. The door gave with an irritated groan and I stepped inside.

It was dark in the entryway as I pulled the cloche from my head, removing several pins and dropping them all upon the marble side table. “Mr. Owen?”

Silence.

How very odd.

“Anyone home?” I shucked out of my coat, laying it on a chair and continued through the darkened house, peering into room after room. No sign of Mrs. Penrose, Mr. Owen, or even my blasted cats.

Odd, as Fiachna was almost always the first to say hello when I returned home from an adventure. I raked my hand through my hair and continued wandering the halls.

“Mrs. Penrose?” I called out, making my way to the stairs. I’d just spoken to the old man on the telephone two days before. The same telephone he had finally allowed me to install inside the bookshop. He’d sounded fine, if preoccupied, when I let him know I was coming home and had some news. Mr. Owen did hate surprises, but I wasn’t entirely sure how to tell him about Manon. I suspected once I relayed the whole story, he would agree with me. A child pellar needed to be with people who knew what she was and wouldn’t treat her any differently for it. My fingers tightened at the thought of Father Crawford’s obsession with her. His desire to control her and use her powers for his own gains.

That could never, ever happen.

Just as I reached the top of the stairs, I spied a familiar fluffy black tail. Fiachna. There was life in this old house after all. I followed the great black cat back through the house and into Mr. Owen’s private library. I paused outside the door as a frisson of worry climbed my spine. The old man was terribly particular about who came into this space, but as my nerves were increasing at a fever pitch, he’d simply have to forgive me for the transgression. “Mr. Owen?”

I pressed the door open and followed my cat inside. The curtains were open—an unusual sight as sunlight could damage the books. It streamed in from the outside world through the diamond-shaped lattice, casting shadows upon the floor like a grate. “Mr. Owen?” I began again, edging around the desk to get a better look in his leather chair. My imagination was running roughshod over me. I half expected to find him murdered in his bed, or having fallen down the stairs, or eaten by the kittens because Mrs. Penrose might have forgotten to feed them breakfast.

“Well, it took you long enough—” He harrumphed from somewhere behind me.

I bit my tongue hard in surprise. Swearing, I spun around to find him leaning against a bookshelf with a folded newspaper in his hand.

“What in God’s name are you doing skulking about and why did you not answer me?” I snapped, rubbing at the back of my neck, willing the nerves to settle.

He raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Reading the paper. Curious stories in them lately.”

I let out a sigh, inordinately relieved to see him standing there in the flesh—the very picture of health. I hadn’t seen him at all since Ruan trundled him off on that train.

“I was beginning to worry the cats had carried you off, or you were buried under a mountain of books.”

Mr. Owen made another harrumph and shook his head—one of the new black-and-white kittens that Fiachna had taken in was rubbing itself on his ankles. New being a relative term as the little thing looked as if it had tripled in size since I left.

“When were you going to tell me you renamed the bookshop?”

He grumbled beneath his breath and waved a hand airily at me. “I thought you’d be pleased. After all the money you’ve put into the old place, it seemed the right thing to do. Besides, I won’t be around forever.”

I narrowed my gaze, not at all liking the way he was talking. His color was fine. His deep brown eyes sparkled with their normal hint of mischief. “What’s brought upon this sudden sense of mortality?” I folded my arms across my chest, heart sinking as I saw the paper in his hands. The Lost Souls of Saint Oda’s in capital letters.

So that’s what he’d been reading. I sank into a chair without even being invited. Fiachna joined me, purring loudly. “I take it that Devereaux woman is at it again.”

He offered the paper to me with a flick of his wrist. “Intriguing tale, but you were curiously absent from the account. Tell me, my love. How much did you have to pay her to accomplish that?”