The Secrets of Castle du Rêve
HANNAH EMERY

A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Hannah Emery 2016

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Hannah Emery asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © February 2016 ISBN: 9780007568802

Version 2016-02-09

For Jessica and Isobel

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

The Castle of Dreams

Part One

Chapter 1: Isobel 2010

Chapter 2: Evelyn: 1939

Chapter 3: Isobel 2010

Chapter 4: Victoria: 1964

Chapter 5: Isobel: 2010

Chapter 6: Evelyn: 1947

Chapter 7: Isobel: 2010

Chapter 8: Victoria: 1964

Chapter 9: Isobel: 2010

Chapter 10: Evelyn: 1948

Chapter 11: Isobel: 2010

Chapter 12: Victoria: 1964

Chapter 13: Isobel: 2011

Part Two

Chapter 14: Victoria: 1964

Chapter 15: Isobel: 2011

Chapter 16: Evelyn: 1948

Chapter 17: Isobel: 2011

Chapter 18: Victoria: 1965

Chapter 19: Isobel: 2011

Chapter 20: Victoria: 1965

Chapter 21: Evelyn: 1965

Chapter 22: Isobel: 2011

Chapter 23: Evelyn: 2011

Epilogue 2015

Acknowledgements

Hannah Emery

Also by Hannah Emery

About the Publisher

About HarperImpulse

The Castle of Dreams

Look around you. Look at the golden stone of the walls, glistening with history and secrets. Look at the elegant, arched windows that shine with the rich colours of the past. You stand in what was once the dining room of the enchanting Castle du Rêve. Some say that if you listen closely enough, you will be able to hear the distant music of a grand medieval banquet in the main hall, the trotting of noble horses across the courtyard, the whispering of voices long dead.

Castle du Rêve was built for Edward du Rêve following the Norman Conquest. For hundreds of years, the castle was known by all of Silenshore for lavish banquets, indulgence and pleasure. Some of the castle has been replaced since those strange medieval times, but its legacy remains ensnared in the walls that stand around you.

During World War II, Castle du Rêve became the home to evacuee children from London, who were hosted by Robert and Catherine du Rêve. The children were astonished to begin their strange new lives in the castle, for the ways of the du Rêves were so very different from the ones they had left behind. The du Rêves continued, in spite of the gloom that pervaded the country, to throw opulent parties and serve mysteriously copious amounts of butter, and dance as though everything was wonderful. Children were seen running through the lush green gardens, playing in the courtyard and riding well-groomed ponies across the cobbles.

It was after the war that the castle became blanketed in mystery. For in spite of the du Rêves’ generosity, their fortune appeared to run out suddenly. One night they vanished from the castle without a trace and within a few weeks, Silenshore University opened. The warm glow of glittering lights faded from within and became replaced with piles of books and the shouts of students. The life of the castle as a private home, and as Castle du Rêve, was over.

The du Rêves have not been seen by anybody since they left the castle. Some say that their wealth was in land only: that they drowned in rising taxes and repairs needed on the castle, and sold it to the University before the grand estate crumbled into a tragic ruin. After all, castles do not glitter without some gold behind them.

Others say that the du Rêves were always rich, but that a scandal forced them to pack their shimmering finery and shoot off into the frozen twilight, never to be seen again.

It is possible that the du Rêves returned to France after hundreds of years in England. Some say they left something here, more than the memory of sparkling jewels and charming smiles and balls. They whisper that one or more of the du Rêves are amongst us, living a life so different from the one of wealth and plenty that they had. Perhaps this is so. Perhaps there is a du Rêve beside you, or behind you. Perhaps you are a du Rêve yourself. Perhaps you will never know.

V. Lace, 1964

Silenshore University

PART ONE

Chapter 1
Isobel 2010

My Queen,

I’m writing to you because I don’t quite know what else to do.

You told me that you were going with Sally to take care of her aunt, but I saw Sally working in Clover’s today. I asked how her aunt was, and she said that she doesn’t have an aunt.

If it hadn’t been for Sally’s name badge then I would perhaps have doubted myself. But I know it was her, and so I know that what you told me wasn’t the truth.

I want to see you. Where are you? Why are you hiding from me? Please, stop running from me and, if you get this, write back to me. Tell me.

Yours,

H.

Isobel sits watching strands of her brittle auburn hair float to the ground like autumn leaves.

Today is a day for change.

As she stares at herself in the vast mirror, Isobel thinks of Tom and watches her lips curve into a small, excited smile. She hasn’t had her hair cut since she met him. But Tom seems to be the type of man who will notice a shorter, blunter cut. He’ll notice, and he’ll like it.

The hairdresser is intrigued by the developments in Isobel’s love life since her last haircut. She asks forthright questions about Tom as she snips into ribbons of Isobel’s hair. Isobel answers each question precisely, her words singing along with the hum of hairdryers and the clicking of straighteners. She could talk about him all day long if she had to.

They’ve been together for about a month.

He was married, but he’s been divorced for ages.

He’s a chef at an Italian restaurant in Ashwood.

He lives in a flat at the promenade end of Silenshore.

He’s older than Isobel, but that doesn’t matter for now.

It’s just as there’s a lull in conversation, as she sits in the swivelling leather chair with only her own gigantic reflection to look at, that Isobel feels a colossal wave of nausea rising through her body.

‘Fringe?’ the hairdresser asks, her scissors poised at Isobel’s pale forehead.

Isobel nods, not because she wants a fringe, but because the sickness is so all-consuming that she can’t speak and she can’t think.

This is the third time this has happened in the past week.

Isobel brings her hand up to her mouth, the black cape that the hairdresser put on her spreading like a raven’s wing and spilling her hair ends out onto the floor. She closes her eyes, tries to forget how potent the toxic smells of bleach and shampoo are. She takes a breath, and then another, and wonders for a moment if it’s passed. But then, like a momentarily still wave, the nausea roars up again, spilling from Isobel in a humiliating fountain of vomit. It spills out from her hands, through her fingers, splashing out onto the tiled floor.

The hairdresser steps back and Isobel wipes her mouth with her sleeve, then immediately regrets it.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ she says quietly, her mouth vile with acid.

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll grab the mop,’ the hairdresser says, clattering the scissors down next to a pile of glossy magazines.

After the hairdresser has mopped the floor and Isobel has given her the revolting cape in a crumpled, ruined ball, and she has taken off her favourite polka-dot top, sitting in her denim jacket over her bra in silent horror while the hairdresser quickly finishes the cut and talks about sickness bugs, Isobel pays and leaves the salon. She climbs the ascending cobbles shakily, looking up to where Silenshore Castle High School sprawls. It’s a grey afternoon and the golden stone of the castle is blackened by the dark sky. Isobel can see her classroom in the left turret, shrouded in half-term stillness. She’s taught English at the castle for four years now. She can’t imagine doing anything else.

Tearing her gaze away from the school, Isobel focuses on the line of shops at her side. A flash of panic sears through her as she marches into Boots, picks up what she needs and pays. When she reaches her flat, she hears her flatmate Iris calling hello, and asking what her haircut’s like. Without answering, Isobel stumbles to the bathroom, pulling the box from the Boots carrier and tearing into the packaging. Iris calls her again, but Isobel can’t shout anything back. Hot fear melts her insides as she stares at the two lines slowly appearing on the white stick in her hands.

She hears a wail and it’s only when the bathroom door opens and sees Iris’s eyes wide with panic that Isobel realises it was her own wail, and that she’s still wailing now.

‘Isobel! What’s happened?’ Iris asks. Then her eyes drop from Isobel’s face to the test she’s holding. ‘Oh God.’ She comes closer, peels the test from Isobel’s fingers and stares at it.

‘I’m going to go to Tom’s. I’ll tell him he doesn’t have to be involved. He won’t want to keep it. It’s too soon. It won’t work.’ Isobel says, her voice high and shaking.

‘You’re in shock,’ Iris says. She gives the test back to Isobel and squeezes her shoulder. ‘Come out when you’re ready. I’ll get the kettle on.’

When Isobel comes out of the bathroom, Iris is standing in their tiny kitchen, stirring two steaming mugs. She hands one to Isobel.

‘Sit down, breathe, and have this before you do anything or go anywhere.’

Isobel stays standing and takes a gulp. It’s way too hot. Scalding pain sears through her. She spits it out into the cluttered kitchen sink, but it’s too late: the inside of her mouth feels burnt and raw. She slams the cup down on the worktop, the boiling liquid sloshing over the rim onto her hand, making an ugly red patch on her skin.

‘I’m going to see Tom,’ she says. She pulls off her denim jacket and grabs a t-shirt from where it’s been drying on the radiator near the front door. It’s one of Iris’s, one that she sleeps in. But her own polka dot top is still stuffed in her bag, covered in vomit. She should take it out of her bag, get changed into something that at least belongs to her and wait for her tea to cool down. She should phone Tom to check that he’s in and she should sit down and think about how to deal with this logically. But she can’t.

She swings open the door, yells goodbye to Iris and is gone.

It starts to rain almost as soon as Isobel steps out onto the street. The rain in Silenshore always tastes of salt: bitter and sharp. It runs down her face, into her mouth as she rushes forwards.

‘This can’t be happening’, she says to herself. A passerby looks at her cautiously from the other side of the road, because it obviously isn’t normal to talk to yourself and Isobel usually knows this and manages to stop herself doing it. But not today.

‘No, no, no.’ Her words are lost as she walks closer to the crashing sea. She looks out to the beach and sees sand and rocks darkened by the black skies. Her head throbs. It’s too cold to just be wearing a t-shirt and the wind bites at her skin. How can it be almost winter already? When Isobel first met Tom just over a month ago, it was a cloudless September day, bright with the heat of late summer. Silenshore Castle High School was hosting the first-ever summer fair in its own grounds. Isobel was in charge of a second-hand bookstall, her shoulders burning fluorescent pink in the sun. The day smelt of dry, hot paperbacks and coins dampened by moist hands; of barbecued beef burgers and sausages that were being served to the meandering crowds by the school chef. It was as Isobel was rearranging the curling books on her stall that she felt a shadow descend on her. A customer, she thought idly, or a colleague. But then she lifted her eyes and saw Tom.

‘Any recommendations?’ he asked, gesturing towards the pile of titles that was spread across the foldout table.

His cool green eyes were almost translucent in the sun and his smile was wide and white. His face was exquisite. Isobel suddenly felt dizzy. She clutched the edge of the table, hoping he wouldn’t notice the effect he was having on her.

‘What kind of thing are you looking for?’

The man put his hand up to mask his face from the sun as he spoke. ‘Something a bit different, I think.’

‘Well, there’s a good pile of mysteries here. A book of fairy tales, though that’s probably not your style. Or there’s this one, a crime thriller? That might be the most manly of the bunch.’

‘I’m gratified that you think that’s what would suit me,’ the man said, his arm still poised crookedly over his head. His hair was dark, flecked at the sides with the kind of grey that made a man more distinguished and attractive. He was older than Isobel, but not too old. Definitely not too old.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ Isobel said, bending and taking out a paper bag from the pile under the table. ‘If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll give it to you for free.’

She felt a thrill run through her at the flirtation she heard in her voice. Freebies because the customer was a gorgeous older man had not been something they’d talked about in the endless staff meetings about the fair. She imagined telling Iris, both of them hooting with laughter.

‘Okay,’ the man said after a minute. ‘How about this? I’ll take it as a review copy. And then once I’ve read it, I’ll take you out for dinner and tell you what I thought.’

Isobel scribbled her number down on the inside cover, her hands trembling slightly, and then handed him the book in a blue paper bag.

‘I’m Tom,’ he said, holding out his hand for her to shake. His was cool, in spite of the roaring heat. As she gazed at his face, she wondered for a frightening moment if he might be the father of one of her pupils. She did some quick calculations. Could be possible.

‘I’m Isobel Blythe. I teach English. Do you know one of the pupils here, or…’ her words drifted off as Tom shook his head.

‘No. I don’t know the school at all. I just find the castle fascinating. I’ve always wanted to visit and have a look around, but never had the opportunity. I saw a poster advertising the fair today and thought I’d wander up.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Isobel smiled, relieved.

‘Me too,’ said Tom. And as Isobel watched him wrap the bag tightly around the book and place it in his back pocket, her world shifted. The day was simple and incredible, bright with heat and possibility.

And now, it is almost winter and everything is different.

She stands on Tom’s doorstep, blinking back rain and tears and takes a deep, shaking breath. Perhaps he’s not in. Perhaps she’ll need to go to Ashwood and see if he’s working, because she can’t remember if he said he was. She turns away from the door to his flat, but then he’s there with her, taking her hands in his and asking what’s wrong, asking her why she’s crying.

She says the words but she can’t tell if he’s taken them in, because he stands still and stares at her and doesn’t seem to respond.

‘I’m pregnant, Tom,’ she says again. Panic shoots through her, erupting like a firework in the pit of her stomach.

He pales, swallows. ‘Come in.’

Chapter 2
Evelyn: 1939

The day of the evacuees it was as though Evelyn was in a snow globe and somebody had picked it up and shaken it roughly, so that she and everything that was familiar to her came loose and floated about.

There were fifteen evacuees in total, and they were sent to Castle du Rêve because their homes and schools in London weren’t safe any more. Evelyn didn’t know much about the war, because whenever her parents talked about it, they spoke in whispers that hung in the air like cobwebs, too high for Evelyn to reach and untangle. But she had gathered that the southeast coast, places dotted around Hastings, like Silenshore, were much safer than London, and that this was the reason for other children coming, rather suddenly, to live with them.

On the day that they were due to arrive, Evelyn waited impatiently at her bedroom window. She was frenzied with excitement, her fingers tapping on the sill restlessly. She had told herself she shouldn’t move from this spot, because she didn’t want to miss the first glimpse of the other children. She didn’t want to miss anything. Evelyn’s bedroom was in one of the turrets of the Castle du Rêve, with rounded walls and an arched window that rose so high it almost touched the ceiling. Through her window, beyond the shining leaves of the trees outside, Evelyn could see the silver sea and a boat bobbing in the distance. She wondered how the evacuees would arrive.

A year ago, Richard the chauffeur would perhaps have brought some of the children back in his long black car. But he’d gone to war now, his face red with excitement about what Evelyn thought might be a more thrilling life. She wondered if Richard might be back soon, when the war was all done with. She’d heard whispers of their daily, Elizabeth, leaving them too, her father hissing that she’d simply have to stay, that they couldn’t do without her, and her mother sighing, and then her father saying they’d just have to see what happened. If Elizabeth was going, nobody had told Evelyn, but then again, nobody ever really told Evelyn anything, even though she was almost eleven.

When Evelyn had been sitting at her window for what seemed like a whole year, an ugly red bus swung into the drive. She watched, her stomach flipping with excitement as children jumped down from the doors of the bus, each holding a suitcase. How on earth would Evelyn pack if she were to leave the castle suddenly? She’d want to take all sorts of things: the hairbrush that her mother had given to her on her birthday, her books, her paints, her special cup that she drank her milk from. Had these children left behind all of their favourite things? She wanted to ask them, to know everything about them this minute. She jumped to her feet and ran along the corridor outside her bedroom, past golden-framed paintings of her grand ancestors, down the wide staircase that swept down the centre of the castle. She reached the front door as it was being pulled open by Elizabeth. The smell hit Evelyn moments later: a strange, potent mix of unbathed flesh, urine and what she could only imagine was the city and its rats and smoky grey houses.

The children looked younger than Evelyn, except for one girl with long legs who was much taller than all the others. They were louder than she’d expected them to be, some chatting, some coughing, others simply making noise by shuffling their feet and banging their brown cases down. They all wore labels around their necks and Evelyn squinted to see what was written on them, but couldn’t make out anything except for blurs of numbers and letters.

As she crept closer towards them, some of them noticed her. A boy smiled, revealing crooked teeth with a gap in the very middle. When the tall girl smiled and said hello to Evelyn, she revealed the very same teeth. Brother and sister, Evelyn realised as she stared and stared. Some of the children didn’t smile at all. Some held onto one another’s hands and looked away from her, up at the wooden-panelled ceiling. Others looked down at the polished floor. One boy ran his dirty shoe along it, as though he was testing out ice for skating on.

Evelyn’s mother and father appeared at the door behind the children within a few moments. Her father nodded at the group, and her mother touched a few on the shoulder gently as she passed them to enter the castle. Evelyn thought about the children’s own mothers and how they might feel about all this. What would it be like to say goodbye to your family? Quite exciting, she supposed.

‘Welcome to Castle du Rêve,’ Evelyn’s mother said, her voice tinkling in the big hallway. ‘I’m Catherine du Rêve and this is my husband Robert. We hope you’ll all be comfortable here.’

Some of the children laughed and Evelyn felt herself turn red as she wondered what was funny. But her mother didn’t seem to notice.

‘Elizabeth, our daily, has made up plenty of beds in our spare rooms. If you’d like to get settled, then perhaps have a look round before teatime at five that would be fine. There are some rooms we’d rather you left alone, if you’d be so kind. Elizabeth will show you around and tell you which places must be avoided. I’m very sure we will all live quite peacefully together.’

Evelyn joined in with the line of children as they stormed up the stairs of the castle, their cases banging, their voices high and loud. She felt like one of them, like she belonged with them.

This, she thought happily, will change everything.

The tall girl was called Mary and she was thirteen. The little boy with the matching gapped front teeth was her brother, Sid, and was ten, the same age as Evelyn. Sid was rather loud and ran everywhere instead of walking. Evelyn liked them the most. The other boys seemed to have less energy than Sid. There was a little fat boy with a coat that was too small for him and he was called Derek. He said very little and stared up at everything as though he had no idea where he was. When eggs were served for breakfast the day after they all arrived, he poked at the slimy yolk, his freckled nose wrinkled.

‘What is it?’ Evelyn saw him whisper to Rita, who was eleven, and had long ginger hair in a tatty plait down her back. Rita shrugged and sliced hers, then popped a piece into her mouth. ‘Don’t know,’ she said as she chewed. ‘But it tastes strange.’

Most of the children talked non-stop. It was as though they had all been best friends forever, but, as Mary told Evelyn, most of them had never met before coming to the castle.

‘I’m lucky because I’ve got Sid here with me,’ Mary said, before taking an enormous bite of toast. She chewed for a while before carrying on. ‘Your parents didn’t want to take him at first. They’d got enough of us, I reckon. But I said I wouldn’t get on that bus unless he did too. So here he is. But we didn’t know any of the others before yesterday, and I don’t think any of them knew each other.’ Mary swallowed and smiled, and Evelyn saw that the crooked teeth were a pale shade of mustard. Mary didn’t seem to care and smiled broadly as she talked, which made her look pretty all the same. ‘Perhaps,’ she continued, ‘we’ll see more of our friends who we know from home when we go to school. We’re going to the school on the High Street. Do you go there too?’

Evelyn shook her head. She’d seen the school before when she’d walked with Miss Silver to the promenade: a tall building that was surrounded by what looked like marshy fields. She’d never been inside, but imagined it to be loud and full of strong smells like ink and cabbage and boys. ‘No,’ she replied quietly. ‘I have a governess, so I do my lessons here in the castle.’

‘At home? That must be a bit lonely. I can’t say I fancy staying at home all day every day.’

‘It’s boring,’ Evelyn said. ‘That’s why it’s good that you’re here.’ She wished that she could have breakfast with Mary every morning. It was only because Evelyn’s father had gone out early that day that Evelyn had been allowed to sit in the kitchen with them, instead of in the dining room.

‘I’m not sure it should be a regular habit,’ Mrs du Rêve had said that morning. ‘Your father won’t like it. But perhaps, as they’ve just arrived, one day won’t hurt.’ She’d stroked Evelyn’s hair and smiled her beautiful smile.

‘Your castle is wonderful. But I don’t know if I’d much like not having any school friends. You’re missing out a bit,’ Mary said now, as she cut into her egg decisively.

‘Yes,’ Evelyn said, pushing her own breakfast around her plate. Food tasted different in the kitchen, as though it had been soured by all the smells of cooking and boiling of copper pans and people. ‘I am.’

‘Was London frightening?’ Evelyn asked Mary one day after the children had been at the castle for about a week. They had been running around the castle grounds with the other children, playing hide and seek, but the game had come to an end now and Evelyn and Mary were in the bedroom that the evacuees were sharing. It was the first time Evelyn had ever been in this room: she’d never had a need to before. The unpleasant smell that she had noticed when the evacuees first arrived lingered in here, attached to the socks and teddy bears and slippers and handkerchiefs that the children had brought with them.

Mary shrugged. ‘No, it wasn’t that frightening. There was nothing really happening. The war will all be over soon anyway. I can’t wait until it is.’

‘Is that yours?’ Evelyn asked, as she noticed a doll lying on the floor.

‘Yes,’ Mary said. ‘I know I’m a bit old for dolls, really. But she reminds me of home, and so I couldn’t help bring her. I didn’t know where on earth I would end up, so I wanted something of mine with me other than a flannel and a coat.’

‘She’s so beautiful,’ Evelyn said. She’d had doll after doll, and still received the occasional one at Christmas or on birthdays. But this one was nicer, somehow, than all of Evelyn’s. Although she’d obviously been played with over and over again, and her paint was chipping, her black hair was threaded with strands of sparkle, and her dress was embroidered with glimmering thread.

‘Here,’ Mary said, handing Evelyn the doll. ‘Have a proper look.’

‘I like things that sparkle,’ Evelyn said, stroking the doll’s hair. ‘There’s something special about such beautiful things, don’t you think?’

Mary laughed. ‘I suppose there is. You’re lucky. There’s enough sparkle in this castle to last you a lifetime,’

Evelyn shrugged. ‘I don’t feel as though there is. I’m dying to explore other places. It’s been more fun in the castle with you here, though. I’ll be lonely when you all go back home.’

‘I won’t have chance to be lonely,’ Mary said with a huff. ‘I’ll be going straight to work after I’ve finished school. And then I’ll just have to hope someone marries me. You’re lucky, Evelyn. You’re beautiful. I’ll be lucky to even get an offer.’

‘That’s not true,’ said Evelyn. ‘You’re beautiful too. And strong and brave, and kind.’

Mary gave a snort of laughter. ‘Boys don’t want strength and bravery from a girl, Evelyn. They want golden hair and big blue eyes, like yours. You know,’ Mary said, staring down at the doll on the bed, ‘your beauty could get you to all sorts of places.’

‘I hope so. I want to be in films. I want to live in Hollywood and be famous,’ Evelyn said, her heart fluttering at just the thought.

‘You could be. You could do anything. Especially now. The war’s going to change everything, Evelyn. And when it does, you should be ready.’

That night, Evelyn’s parents threw one of their parties at the castle. Evelyn and the children weren’t allowed downstairs, of course. But after the most elaborate furniture in the castle had been dragged around from room to room, and Elizabeth had scurried up and down the staircase a hundred times, and the kitchen seemed to glow with the preparation of all the food that would be given to the guests; when the first chords of music began to echo through the castle, Evelyn beckoned for the children to follow her upstairs to her bedroom. They threw themselves up the staircase breathlessly, falling into Evelyn’s room all at once.

‘We can have our own party in here,’ Evelyn said, her eyes shining. ‘I always pretend I’m having a party of my own, and tonight it will be the best ever, because you’re all here too!’

She took Mary’s hand, which was cool in hers, and they danced together, giggling as Mary’s feet tangled around Evelyn’s. The other children danced too, laughing as they bumped into one another. When they couldn’t dance any more for laughing, they collapsed on the floor of Evelyn’s bedroom, out of breath.

‘Are you all hungry?’ Evelyn asked, and as the children nodded, she pulled out from under her bed a tray of rich buttery food that she had sneaked out of the kitchen earlier on. They sat and ate cakes and biscuits, the smells of the party from downstairs floating up around them: a mixture of sweet perfumes and sugar and wine.

‘This is the best party I’ve ever been to,’ said Derek, a smear of cream on his lip.

‘Me too,’ said Mary.

Sid shrugged. ‘It’s okay. But we could make it even more exciting. Let’s play a game of dares.’

Derek sat up straighter. ‘Dares in a castle!’ he said, his eyes wide. ‘Yes, let’s!’

And so they played. Sid dared Derek to run downstairs and take a sip of somebody’s champagne. He was gone for a while, and when he came back, he hiccupped loudly. ‘Champagne’s horrible,’ he said.

Mary stood up. ‘I’ll do the same dare. I want to taste champagne.’ She darted from the room, but a few minutes later she was back, clutching her sides and laughing. ‘They saw me before I could get a sip! I told them I’d got lost and they showed me back up here.’

‘Well that’s the end of that,’ said Sid. ‘They’ll be looking out for us now. We need some new dares. Evelyn, it’s your turn. What shall we make her do?’ he asked the group.

‘Well, going downstairs is no good for Evelyn. She lives here, so there’s not much that’s daring about that,’ Sid said, frowning with the effort needed to think of a good dare.

‘What about if you go somewhere in the castle you’re not allowed to go?’ Derek said. ‘That would be a proper dare.’

‘I could go in my parents’ room. I’m not really allowed in there.’

‘Yes!’ Sid shouted, his eyes wide with the excitement of the game. ‘Do that and bring something for us to see from their room. Something we won’t have seen before.’

Evelyn stumbled to her feet and thought for a minute. Then she grinned.

‘Wait here.’

She knew exactly where the mirror was. She remembered the first time she’d ever seen it, when her mother was looking into it and didn’t know Evelyn was there. It was the most beautiful thing Evelyn had ever seen, covered in what looked like shimmering blue diamonds.

‘Can I have a look?’ she’d asked. Her mother had spun around.

‘Evelyn! I didn’t know you were in here. You can look. But do not touch. This mirror has been in my family for generations. It’s very valuable.’

Evelyn had stared down into the glass, her round face and golden hair framed by the sparkling stones.

‘Don’t ever touch it,’ her mother had said, sliding the mirror into her dressing table drawer and closing it firmly. ‘Promise me, Evelyn?’

‘Yes,’ Evelyn had said, with her fingers crossed behind her back.

Now, Evelyn raced to her parents’ room, her heart thumping in time with the music that floated up from the party. She glanced around to check that nobody could see her before she flung the drawer open and took out the mirror. Holding it took her breath away: it was heavy and sharp, the stones pricking her skin as she clutched it and ran back to her own bedroom.

‘I’ve got this,’ she announced breathlessly as she returned to the other children. ‘My mother told me that I wasn’t allowed to have it, or even touch it.’ Her face burned: she was thrilled and frightened all at once. Her heart thumped and thumped in her chest as Mary gasped over the mirror and Sid fingered the glass. But there was no need to be scared, Evelyn reminded herself.

It was just a mirror, and she would put it back soon.

Nobody would ever know.

Chapter 3
Isobel 2010

My Queen,

It’s fortunate that I know where you live, because if I couldn’t write to you, I would most probably expire: a brutal, red death. I only hope that these letters will be passed onto you, and that you will write back to me and tell me where you are. I have visited Lace Antiques seven times this week. I have had to buy a painting of a rather ugly dog and a chipped crystal vase to keep your father happy. I wanted neither. I only want you.

Please, tell me my dear. Where have you gone?

H

Seconds pass, and Tom still doesn’t speak. Isobel stands in the doorway to his lounge, staring at the television, where cars tear around a black track that’s glossy with rain. The whirring of the engines makes her want to scream. She sees the remote on the arm of the sofa, seizes it, mutes the cars and then tosses it back down. But then there is silence, which is somehow even worse. She squeezes her eyes shut and tries to take a steady breath, but panic still roars inside her.

‘Tom,’ she says, her eyes still closed. As she speaks, she feels his arms closing around her. She clutches onto him.

‘When?’ he asks eventually.

She hasn’t even thought about this. She counts now, losing track once and having to start again. Isobel doesn’t understand her body like other women seem to. She can’t say for definite when she missed a period because they come and go with no warning. ‘June, I think.’ Her thoughts flit against each other and tears spill out again, her head throbbing. ‘Yes, end of June. It’s too soon. We can’t do it. You don’t have to-’. She opens her eyes, sees Tom through her tears: his ashen shock, his wide eyes.

‘I should go,’ she says next, turning from him so abruptly that the room spins. ‘I’ll leave you to it for a bit. You don’t need me here, in a mess like this.’

‘Isobel.’ Tom’s voice is sharp but kind, his grip on her arm firm but gentle. ‘Come on. Sit down.’ He goes to the tiny kitchen and roots around in the fridge, taking out a can of Coke and handing it to her. ‘Here.’

She’s sitting on the couch when he comes and sits so close to her that it almost feels like they are one person. He watches her swig from the icy can, waits for her to swallow and take a few deep breaths so that she can listen to what he has to say.

‘This is our issue. We’ll be shocked together, and we’ll sort it out together. You’re going nowhere.’

It’s as if Tom has clicked a switch inside Isobel. She takes a wobbly breath and another gulp of her drink. Her trembling hands begin to still and her banging heart quietens.

‘I’m stunned,’ Tom continues, his hand resting on her knee, his other hand rubbing his face. ‘But I love you, Isobel. And I want us to really think about this. I want us to think about whether it’s something we can do. For what it’s worth, I think it probably is.’

Isobel stares at him. ‘You do?’

His eyes fix on something that Isobel can’t see. They are soft green, crinkled slightly around the edges by life. His lashes are thick, dark and straight. ‘Yes. I really do.’

She thinks for a minute. June. Next summer, a pram, a tiny little pink person. Tom, holding the baby, shushing it and rocking it gently. ‘Maybe,’ she says, the word making her lighter somehow. Anxiety still claws at her and shock ripples through her body. But the raw terror has cleared. She leans her head against Tom’s shoulder, inhaling his warm scent of mint, herbs, an earthy aftershave she doesn’t know the name of. He turns and kisses her gently, and for a split second she feels as though there’s nothing wrong at all.

‘I don’t know how it’ll work,’ she says as she nestles back into Tom and puts her feet up beside her. ‘But I trust you.’ She takes the remote from where she threw it down on the sofa just after she arrived and turns the TV back on. The racing has stopped. The winner is being interviewed, beaming through his helmet.

They watch for a while, curled together like cats. Isobel’s mind whirs steadily through hundreds of thoughts. She gazes around Tom’s flat and thinks of her own. They are both so small.

But they have until June. She closes her eyes again, presses her body against Tom’s.

The first day back after half term is one of those days that never gets light. November darkness lingers in Isobel’s classroom: even with the lights on, it’s dingy. The English department is based in one of the round turrets at the top, with an arched window that rises so high it almost touches the ceiling. Isobel taps out emails on her laptop as the pupils work, glancing now and again around the room and out of the huge windows at the side of her desk.

The sky outside is a brooding purple-grey. Seagulls swoop past, cawing like rooks. The trees along the entrance to the school are almost skeletal now that winter is coming, their branches clawing in the wind. Between the trees, the grey sea churns in the distance. Isobel loves the view, loves this classroom. She can sense the past here, seeping from the huge stone bricks. When she can, Isobel weaves into her lessons stories about the castle and its past. She makes the younger classes write stories about the ghosts that might be trapped in the walls, about the horses and soldiers that might have trotted across the courtyard and the grand people who lived here when it was first built hundreds of years ago. She tells them about the enigmatic Edward du Rêve, whom the castle was built for, and how his family stayed here for generations. She tells them about how later, the chateau-style castle was used as Silenshore University for over forty years.

Isobel remembers her mother telling her stories about the strange disappearance of the du Rêves. She tries to recall the details now, as she watches silver raindrops begin to gather on the windowpanes. She sees scenes from a long time ago in her mind: images of sitting up in bed, her hair in a plait so that it would be crimped in the morning, her mother sitting on the pale-pink chair in the corner of the room with her long, thin legs crossed as she told Isobel stories to send her to sleep. Words come back to Isobel now, shrouded in her mother’s voice: they just vanished! But Isobel can’t remember the details. There are so many fragments of conversations with her mother that lie in Isobel’s mind like bits of broken china. If she thinks about them too closely, or tries to touch them, their sharp edges sting her.

She clears her throat and a few of the more restless pupils look up from their biro scrawls, eyes round with hope that the lesson is over. When Isobel announces that it is, there’s a sigh of contentment and a final rustle of papers. She clicks her laptop shut and collects the answers in, the thought of what she needs to do now that her working day is over looming in her mind.

When she reaches the bottom of the main staircase, Isobel turns away from the double doors that lead into the main hall and reception area, and instead pulls open the side door and steps into the wet afternoon. Impressive as it is, Silenshore Castle has too many secret exits to be a high school: teachers and children escape all too often. Isobel should stay and do her marking, and normally she would. But today, she can’t concentrate until she has seen her father.

Blythe Finances is about halfway down Castle Street, between the Co-op and Wheels chippy. Isobel regrets not bringing her car as the raindrops hammer down on her like needles. She has an umbrella, but the hostile wind whips it out of shape. By the time she arrives at the shop, rain has seeped through her pumps, her feet squelching unpleasantly as she pulls open the door.

Isobel’s dad sits at his usual desk, surrounded by files and Post-its. He looks away from his screen briefly and smiles as he sees Isobel.

‘Izzie! What brings you here?’

She shrugs. ‘Thought we needed a catch-up. Got time?’

Graham clicks his mouse a few times and glances at his watch. ‘Jon’s finished, so there’s only me here. I’ve just got a few phone calls to make, but then I’ve got a bit of time.’

‘I can wait,’ Isobel says. ‘I’ll go up to the flat, shall I?’

‘Go on, then,’ her dad says. ‘I’ll be up as soon as I’m done.’

Isobel surveys the lounge as she reaches the flat. A dining table that used to be the family one, on which she knows her clandestine initials are carved somewhere, sags with junk in the corner. There are no dining chairs: they’ve somehow all disappeared over time. The whole room seems wrong: the lampshade isn’t straight, the clock is four hours fast. A curling rug lies in the centre of the small room, fuzzy with cat hair. The perpetrator of the fuzz, Duke, licks his paws dolefully next to Isobel. The curtains are drawn, as they always are. She can see a crack of her father’s bedroom through the open door. His bed is unmade, his room littered with books and clothes.

Isobel shakes her head and pulls out her phone. She has a message from Tom.

Hope it goes okay. Can’t wait to see you later. T xxx

She taps out a reply as she waits for her dad to come up. He might be a while. He’s more and more involved in the business lately, and less inclined to spend time with Isobel. It’s fine, she tells herself, because he’s busy and he’s okay and that’s the main thing. But it’s not like it used to be.

After fifteen minutes of flicking through her phone, Isobel stands up, restless. Just as she reaches for the door, it opens, and her dad hurries in.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says. ‘I just needed to get those phone calls made.’

Isobel sits down on the old brown sofa and gestures for her dad to do the same.

‘That’s okay. Are you done for the day now?’

‘No. I’ll go back down for a bit, I think. Plenty to be getting on with, as usual. So, what’s new?’ he asks.

‘Well,’ she begins.

Her father pats his knee for Duke to join him. The cat springs up and curls on his lap. ‘Yes. We’re listening.’

‘I’ve met someone. A man. It’s going brilliantly.’

‘I’m so pleased. That’s great. And?’

‘Why does there have to be more?’

‘With a man, there’s always more.’

Isobel shakes her head and laughs. Then there’s a silence until Duke begins purring loudly, the glottal sounds filling the room.

‘I’m pregnant, Dad.’

As she blurts the words out, Isobel remembers all the other things she has blurted out to her father over the years. I’m doing teacher training, I’ve got a job at Silenshore Castle High School, I’m going to rent a flat with Iris. Her mother always spoke softly, prepped them carefully, built a platform for whatever she was going to say. Isobel has never been like that. She can’t ever think of words other than those that are on her mind. The words she wants to say blink, fluorescent and blinding. No others can be seen. She tries to look at her father but his eyes are lowered.

‘Dad?’

‘Are you happy?’ he asks eventually, looking up at her.

‘I’m really happy. I panicked at first,’ she admits. ‘I’m still kind of scared, I suppose.’

‘Oh, everyone’s always scared of something, Izzie. So if that’s all you have to contend with, then things aren’t so bad.’

They chat for a few minutes. Graham asks when the baby will arrive, and they speculate on if it might be a girl or boy. Isobel tells her father trivial things about Tom: his shifts at the restaurant in Ashwood, his good dress sense, his flat. She makes some tea and quickly wipes the kitchen worktop while she waits for the kettle to boil. There are breadcrumbs, hard pellets of rice and shiny slivers of cheese stuck to her cloth when she’s finished. The tang of fish lingers in the air of the small kitchen, which mixes with the scent of tea and makes Isobel gag behind her sleeve.

For once, her father doesn’t snap or take offence that she has cleaned a surface and tried to make his flat more inhabitable. But after they have drunk their tea, Graham stands up.

‘I’d better get back down to the office.’

Isobel looks up at him as he stands, preoccupied, waiting for her to let him go back to bury his head in his paperwork. It’s been the same for over two years now, since that slow, inevitable morning when her mother died. Isobel’s dad always worked hard when Isobel was a child, but he usually made sure he finished in time to help her with her homework or watch Blue Peter together or eat pizza on a Friday night. Now, it’s as though his family mode has been switched off, and Isobel can’t find how to turn it back on, to tune him back into her.

‘Come on, then. I’m going to Tom’s anyway,’ she says. As they clatter down the uncarpeted stairs, a sweet, warm scent blooms in the air and overpowers the smell of frying fish and chips and vinegar from next door.

‘I can smell the bread again,’ Isobel says. The office downstairs used to be her grandparents’ bakery. Even though bread hasn’t been baked here for over thirty years, every now and again the overbearing aromas of yeast and flour, sugar and butter waft through the air.

‘It’s trapped in the walls. They don’t want us to ever forget it,’ Graham says. He says it every time they smell the bread. Even though Isobel has heard it so many times, it still makes her feel uneasy, as though the spirits of her grandparents are watching them from somewhere, their faces dusted white with flour and death.

They reach the bottom and she gives her father a brief hug. He looks down at her, at her stomach.

‘Doesn’t look like there’s much in there yet,’ he observes.

‘No, I know. I suppose it’s only a matter of time, though.’

He lifts a hand and places it gently on her belly, his unexpected touch warm and heavy. They stand for a moment, not speaking, until he moves his hand away. Isobel smiles at him, surprised and glad.

‘I think you’ll be just fine,’ he says.

When Tom swings open the door to his flat later that night, the sugary smell of cooked apples swirls in the air. He’s wearing a grey t-shirt, and to see him uncharacte‌ristically casual makes Isobel smile and reach up to kiss him. He lingers, his hands around her waist. ‘I’ve been thinking about you all day. How are you feeling?’

‘Okay,’ Isobel says, feeling a broad grin spread over her face. ‘I’m feeling good today, actually. And something in here smells fantastic. It’s making me hungry.’

‘That’s because I’m doing one of my specialities. You’re going to love it.’

‘I’m loving the t-shirt too,’ she says, touching the soft grey cotton. ‘I usually like a man in a suit,’ she says with a wink. ‘But you really pull off casual.’

Tom laughs. ‘Well, that’s a relief. How did it go with your dad?’

‘He was fine with it. Calmer than I was. I think I expected him to freak out. But I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because I freaked out.’

‘Maybe it’s because you’re his little girl. That’s a bit of a cliché, though, I suppose.’

Isobel shakes her head. ‘I’m not sure. To be honest, since Mum died, I feel like we’re not that close. It felt a bit weird even telling him about you. I don’t speak to him that much about real life these days. He’s always distracted by work. But today was good, I suppose, because I had to talk to him properly, and I suppose he had to listen.’

‘I’m glad,’ Tom says. ‘I felt a bit nervous, actually. Dads can be funny about who their daughters end up with, can’t they?’

Isobel smiles. ‘I think he could see how happy you make me. That helped.’

The words are luminous and dance around them. Tom’s face brightens and he leans down to kiss Isobel. After her long day, Isobel wants to melt into him, into his scent of herbs and wine. She pulls him closer and they linger over their kiss until Tom pulls away reluctantly.

‘Dinner calls,’ he says apologetically, going over to the hob.

‘Isn’t this like being at work?’ Isobel asks. ‘I’d have thought you’d be sick of cooking for other people. I was expecting a microwave meal. Or a takeaway.’

‘A man in a suit and a microwave meal?’ Tom laughs. ‘You had some strange expectations, Isobel Blythe.’

Isobel laughed. ‘Well, all I can say is that you’ve exceeded my expectations anyway, as always. I can’t wait to taste your cooking. What are we having?’ She sits down at the small glass table.

Tom clears his throat and whips a white tea towel over his shoulder. ‘Filet mignon de porc Normande,’ he says with an uncharacte‌ristically dramatic flourish of the hands. ‘Normandy Pork.’

‘It smells amazing. Is this a throwback from your time in France?’ Isobel remembers Tom mentioning that he spent a year or so living in France when they first met.

‘Yes, I suppose it is. I tried this dish for the first time there, although I never cooked it. I didn’t cook much when I lived in France. I mostly existed on bread and cheese. Have you been to France?’

‘No. But I know a lot about Paris because Iris really wants to go. She’s obsessed.’

‘She’s got good taste. It’s not a bad place to be obsessed with.’ Tom says as he stirs the pot on his sleek black hob. ‘What about you? Where’s your number-one destination?’

‘Vienna,’ Isobel replies quickly. ‘I’ve always wanted to go to Vienna.’

Tom smiles and comes to sit at the table. ‘The city of dreams?’

Isobel nods. ‘I even love that it’s called that.’

‘I’ve never been. But I’d definitely go. We’ll add it to our list.’

‘Our list?’

‘Yeah. You know: have a baby, then go to France and then do Vienna.’

Isobel laughs. ‘That’s a pretty short list.’

‘Well, we need to keep it manageable.’ Tom scores a match and lights some tea lights on the table, and then goes back to the kitchen.

‘Actually,’ Isobel says, standing up and following Tom. ‘I kind of have a thing agreed with Iris. She promised to go to Vienna with me. My mum lived there when she was young, and she used to talk about it a lot. She made it sound like something out of a fairy tale: all castles and balls and music. When she died, I suggested to my dad that we should go. He got upset with me, said it was a terrible idea to go there without her, and I haven’t brought it up with him since. We had a bit of a falling out about it, which kind of made me even more determined to go.’

Iris had promised Isobel she’d go with her to Vienna on one condition: that they could go to Paris together too. She’d dug out a battered Paris brochure from her bedside drawer and printed out a webpage on Vienna for Isobel. Then she’d taken a shoebox from her wardrobe, tipped out the shoes onto her bed, and put the papers together in there instead. ‘This can be our box of dreams,’ she’d said.

They had laughed at the drama in Iris’s voice, at the clichéd title she had given the box. But they had kept it and filled it with more leaflets and printouts until the sides bulged.

Tom nods. ‘I know what you mean. My mum can sometimes be funny about remembering my dad, and things they did when they were young. It’s like it just hurts too much to think about the past.’

‘I can understand that. But losing her also taught me that life’s short. So I try to make the most of it. Obviously, it hurts to think about her sometimes because I miss her so much. But I do want to try and keep her with us, by doing things that she liked. I think that’s what she would have wanted me to do. But my dad doesn’t seem to think like that.’

‘Well, he might come round. But I’m with you. I think Vienna sounds brilliant. And it doesn’t matter who you go with, it can still be on the list.’

‘Thanks, Tom. That means a lot.’

Tom grins and winks suggestively. ‘You can show me exactly how much after dinner. I mean, Filet mignon de porc Normande.’

Isobel laughs and sits at the table. ‘It’s gorgeous,’ she says as she bites into a tender piece of pork. The flavours of cider and sweet apples have seeped into the meat and the taste is comforting.

‘No nausea?’ Tom asks.

‘Nope. None at all.’ In fact, Isobel’s stomach growls as she begins eating. She has another mouthful and takes a piece of warm bread from the basket that Tom has put between them on the table.

‘So, do you get to cook much French stuff at work?’ she asks when she has finished chewing.

‘Not really. It’s mostly quite thoughtless Italian food. Pizza and pasta. I don’t get to choose the menu, which is a bit frustrating. But this is actually another item for our list,’ adds Tom as he slices neatly into his meat. ‘I really want to open a French restaurant at some point. I would’ve done it already, but starting up a business isn’t cheap, so I’m having to save up and be patient. It’ll happen one day, I’m sure.’

‘Where would you open your restaurant?’ The restaurant Tom works at now is in the centre of Ashwood, which is a grey and uninspiring town that was mainly built in the 1960s – all concrete estates and uniform buildings and towers of flats. It’s impossible to imagine a French restaurant there.

‘I’d open it in Silenshore. This place needs to be famous for something other than people going missing and never coming back.’

Isobel thinks of the stories she’s heard over the years: of the strange disappearing du Rêve family, of the man who was found dead at the castle in the 1960s, of the girl who was taken away one Valentine’s day and was never seen again. ‘I think all the mystery makes Silenshore more special,’ she says. ‘There’s something almost mystical about the castle and all its secrets. Plus, if you hadn’t been so drawn to the castle, we would never have met.’

‘I know. I owe the castle a lot. Like I said when we first talked at the school fair, something has always pulled me to it, although I couldn’t tell you exactly what it was.’

‘I like to think it’s because you somehow knew I was there. That’s why you felt you wanted to go through the gates,’ Isobel blurts out, then laughs at her own openness.

‘You’re probably right. At least that’s one mystery solved.’ Tom says, reaching out for Isobel’s hand across the plates and lacing his fingers through hers.

Chapter 4
Victoria: 1964

Victoria would never have even met Harry if it weren’t for the rain.

He didn’t have any interest in antiques, she realised later, and he certainly didn’t need to buy any that afternoon. He only ducked into Lace Antiques because of the fat drops of salty rain that began to drum down on him without any kind of forewarning.

Victoria was sitting behind the counter, staring into a mirror that she’d found that morning. Her father always told her not to touch his things, that he’d box her ears if he found out that she’d been rooting and touching potential money-makers. But the morning had been so very long, and the customers who had come into the shop had been frustratingly indifferent to what was out on display. So Victoria had decided to move some of the objects around a little, and then, before she knew it, she was on her hands and knees in the corner, where some stock she’d never seen before was tossed into an old brown suitcase.

Once she had fiddled with the brittle clasp on the case and opened it up, Victoria had found a strange old doll with shimmering black hair and a cracked red smile. There were some discoloured white beads too, which Victoria hung around her neck, the thick, salty fragrance of the case clinging to them and permeating her dress. It was no wonder these things weren’t on the shelves. She leant further into the case, almost pulled in by its intoxicating scent. Something silver glinted in the corner and she reached for it.

You’re like a magpie, her mother had said once, a long time ago. All that glitters is not gold, darling. You’ll end in trouble if you go for everything that sparkles.

As Victoria tugged the cool, metallic object out of the cavernous case, she saw that it was a beautiful hand mirror, its back encrusted with deep-blue sapphires. She sat back on her heels and turned the mirror over in her hands to see her reflection, then over again to see the glittering dark case, then over again to stare at herself: her pale skin, opaque with youth, her black hair and heavy fringe that sat above her eyes like the brim of a hat.

It was moments after Victoria stared at her unblinking reflection, as a thunder cloud trawled through the sky like a pirate ship, that the shop door swung open, and Victoria fell in love.

Frederick, the shop cat, showed an instant affinity to the man at the door, purring and wheedling around his legs. Victoria, gazing down at Frederick in a moment of panic that he would cover the man’s trousers in unappealing grey cat fuzz, noticed that the man was wearing beautiful brown suede shoes, which the rain had threatened to ruin.

You can tell everything about a man by his shoes, Victoria had heard somebody say once, though she couldn’t remember who. Everything.

Victoria looked at the shoes and tried to work out the Everything that had been promised. But when all she could see was the tightly wound laces, the faint pattern of rain on the sides of the shoe, the water that was seeping up from the heel, she moved her gaze upwards, where it was drawn, all at once, to the man’s exquisite face.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked, moving forwards and scooping Frederick up in her arms.

‘I was just wanting a little shelter, I’m afraid. I wasn’t expecting such an onslaught of rain.’

An onslaught. What a wonderful expression to use.

Frederick yowled and attempted to wriggle from Victoria’s grasp. Not wanting to seem intimidated by a small grey cat, she grasped him with all her might. But Frederick, his sights set firmly on freedom, unleashed his claws as he scrambled out of her arms and over her shoulder. She yelped as his claw ripped through her yellow dress and into her white, soft skin beneath.

The man took a step forward immediately, his face all the more attractive for its air of perfect concern.

‘You’re bleeding,’ he said.

Victoria sniffed. ‘It doesn’t hurt,’ she said, only just managing to ignore the bolt of pain that was coursing through her. ‘It’ll soon stop.’

The man pulled out the chair from behind the counter. ‘Here. At least have a little sit down.’

Victoria smiled as she took the offered seat. ‘Are you really sure there’s nothing you need to buy?’

The man shook his head. ‘I feel quite guilty now, coming in here and upsetting your day. I have an important meeting today, and I didn’t want to arrive looking like something washed ashore, so I thought I would just nip in here to stay dry.’

‘Where do you work?’

‘I’m a lecturer of English Literature at the University. We have an author coming in later to discuss some talks we want him to give to some of our prospective students. I admire him, so I wanted to make a good impression.’

‘Who’s the author?’

‘It’s Robert Bell. Do you know him?’

Victoria stood up, forgetting her wounded shoulder and her weakness from moments before. ‘Robert Bell! He’s one of my favourites!’

‘You read Robert Bell books? Well, you really aren’t what you seem, are you?’

Victoria grinned. ‘I like mysteries. I read them all the time.’ She rushed over to the counter and retrieved a tattered copy of The Blue Door from its place underneath a pile of receipts.

The man grinned: a wide, wonderful grin that showed off a broad set of teeth, his left canine slightly crooked, the rest in perfect white rows. ‘You know, I don’t think there’d be a problem with you coming along to one of the talks if you wanted to. I think you’d enjoy it. I could arrange for you to attend as a visitor, if you’d like?’

‘I’d love to!’ Victoria said, wondering if she would sit with the man, wondering if he might offer to take her for a cup of tea afterwards, wondering if her father would let her say yes if he did. He wouldn’t, she knew it. She would have to keep it to herself, somehow.

‘Well, as soon as the talks are arranged, I’ll come back here and tell you when they’ll be.’

Victoria nodded, knowing that her life as she knew it was gone, and in its place was one where all she thought of, dreamt of, was this man who stood before her with his white teeth and his rained-on suede brown shoes.

‘Forgive me,’ the man said, holding out his hand and offering to shake Victoria’s. His hand was firm, strong, warm around hers. She wanted to hold it forever. ‘I didn’t tell you my name. It’s Harry.’

‘I’m Victoria.’

‘Ah. Like the Queen,’ Harry smiled.

Victoria smiled back. ‘Yes. Just like the Queen,’ she said, pleased with her tone of voice and aware, somehow, that it was a different tone to any she had ever used before.

‘Well,’ Harry said after a few seconds, ‘I’d best be going. But it really has been excellent to meet you.’ He looked up out of the front window of the shop. Through the clocks, the candelabras, the stacked picture frames, the glass case of twinkling brooches, the sun could be seen glowing through the clouds. ‘It’s dried up as quickly as it arrived,’ he added.

Victoria, suddenly remembering her injured shoulder again, touched it and winced. Harry winced with her.

‘Get that seen to,’ he said kindly as he opened the door. The hum of the crowds on the promenade beyond, the shouts of excited children on their holidays, the screams of seagulls merged with the monotonous ticking of clocks in the shop for a moment.

Then the door swung shut and he was gone.

Lace Antiques was a small, narrow shop with a sloping floor and walls that were crawling with paintings, clocks and bowed shelves. A fine layer of velvet dust lay over the top of almost everything in the shop. Victoria didn’t like cleaning, her father was too busy at auctions to clean, and her mother was always too tired to clean. And so the layer of dust remained.

Behind the counter, which was piled high with yellowed pamphlets about Silenshore, more clocks (really, it sometimes seemed as if clocks were all Victoria’s father bought) and a small cracked bowl of garnets that her mother placed there to bring the business success, was a white door. The white door led to the stairs up to Victoria’s parents’ flat, which, like the shop, was veiled in dust, tangled belongings and a brooding quiet that threatened to build into a sudden storm at any minute.

It was an hour after Harry left the shop, leaving a chest-tightening scent of cigarettes and rain behind him, that Victoria heard the white door behind her edge open. It wouldn’t be her father behind the door because he was at an auction, probably bidding for some useless clock at that very moment. That left only her mother.

Victoria didn’t turn around, but continued staring in the mirror she had found before Harry arrived. She was trying to work out what he might have seen when he looked at her. How strange that the image seen through Harry’s eyes could have been so very different to what Victoria saw in the mirror before her. She wondered if he’d seen the faint scar on the bridge of her nose from when she’d tumbled downstairs as a baby, or the way her black hair flicked up ever so slightly on the left side of her temple, or the green flecks in her bright-blue eyes. She wondered if he had thought she was beautiful. The way he’d looked at her when he was in the shop made her sure that he did. But now that he’d gone, that certainty had vanished with him.

Victoria raised an eyebrow and inspected the impact the movement had on her features. If she saw Harry again, she would remember to raise an eyebrow. It looked quite good.

‘Victoria!’

The shout was unexpected, so unexpected that Victoria swivelled around in panic, almost dropping the mirror. It slipped slightly from her grasp and the jagged sapphires on the back scraped across her fingers. She tightened her grip around it and looked up at her mother, who was staring at Victoria in horror.

‘What are you doing with that mirror? Where did you get it from?’

Victoria hesitated. She’d had the story all planned for her father. A customer opened the case and got the mirror out. I was just about to put it back. But her mother was different. She hadn’t expected her mother to even come into the shop, and she certainly hadn’t thought her mother would notice the mirror, because her mother never really noticed anything.

‘I found it in the suitcase. I like it.’ Victoria said.

But her mother wasn’t listening. She was trying to take the mirror, trying to unpeel Victoria’s fingers from its rough, glittering handle.

‘You mustn’t play with that, darling. It’s not safe.’

Victoria thought of Harry, remembered how she could somehow smell his skin, remembered the way he shook her hand. He did think she was beautiful, she was suddenly sure of it again. And the mirror, the whole morning, was now a part of Victoria’s time with Harry. She didn’t want it to end, any of it. She didn’t want it snatched from her hands, treated like a childish game and nothing more. She wasn’t a child: she was sixteen, and if she was going to be trapped in this shop all day every day for the rest of her life then she should be able to touch whatever she wanted to.

‘Victoria!’ her mother shouted again, giving up on wrestling with Victoria’s tight grasp. ‘You cannot play with that mirror!’ Her hands crept up to her face, and Victoria watched as her mother suddenly seemed to wilt. The fight in her had gone as suddenly as it had arrived. ‘Just promise me you will put it away and leave it alone,’ she finished quietly. She turned and disappeared behind the white door again, as smoothly as a ghost, leaving the mirror behind.

Sleep was out of reach for Victoria that night. Her mind was bright with the image of Harry, and she tossed from one position to the next, wondering when he might return to the shop. She replayed their conversation over and over again in her mind until the black night had turned into a blue dawn. He hadn’t said he would be back the next day, or even soon. It all depended on Robert Bell, the author, and when he arranged to give the talks that Harry would invite Victoria to.

Robert Bell, thought Victoria as she heard the clatter of the milkman’s bottles break through the silent morning, please, please arrange to do your talks soon.

And as the milkman clinked his way down the winding hill of Silenshore, and the birds began to sing, and the blue dawn turned into a pale-yellow morning, Victoria finally fell asleep.

Since they had left school last month, Sally Winters had come into the antique shop every Tuesday to see Victoria. Sally worked at Clover’s Tea Rooms at the other end of Silenshore, near the promenade, and Tuesday was her day off. Normally, when the door swung open with Sally’s rather forceful push, Victoria would do a quick mental run-through of all the things she wanted to talk to Sally about, all the things she wanted to ask Sally about the week that had just passed. But this Tuesday, the day after Harry, Victoria yelped and jumped up as soon as she saw Sally through the glass, scurrying over to the door and ushering her in.

Sally’s silver-blue eyes widened in wonder at the tale of Harry. She sighed when Victoria had finished talking, her slim face drawn down in disappointment that she wasn’t at the centre of this thrilling new romance.

‘Is he handsome?’ she asked without waiting for a response. ‘I wish I could meet someone handsome. I hate working at Clover’s. Do you think Harry has any nice friends who would like to meet me?’

‘I’ll ask him,’ Victoria said. She turned to the mirror, which she had brought downstairs with her when she had opened up the shop. ‘Do you think,’ she said quickly, ‘that I should start wearing my hair up more often? Do you think it makes me look older?’ Victoria tore off her red headband and gathered her black hair in her hands.

‘A little, perhaps.’ Sally frowned. ‘How old is Harry?’

Victoria shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, exactly. In his twenties, I think.’

‘Twenties? Wow, Victoria. I bet he’s nothing like the boys from school.’

Victoria grinned. ‘You’re right. He’s nothing like them at all. I have a special feeling about him. I feel so excited all of the time.’ She poured two cups of tea from the teapot that she’d also brought downstairs. Every Tuesday when she visited Lace Antiques, Sally always stayed for a cup of tea served in one of the beautifully fragile china cups that had been collected by the shop over the years. Victoria had bought an orange sponge cake from Blythe’s Bakery across the road yesterday and had already sliced a piece each for Sally and herself.

They sat chatting about Harry for a while, the cake and cups between them on the counter, the sweet tang of orange in the air, until Sally stood up from her stool and brushed down her striped dress, yawning as though everything was a terrible bore. ‘I suppose I’d better be going. Mum’s given me so many jobs to do at home that Tuesday rarely feels like a day off lately.’

When she’d waved Sally off down the street, Victoria poured herself another cup of tea. She had chosen the blue cup, the one with the very fine crack around the base, finer than a hair. Using the blue cup took a certain amount of bravery; it could split and break at any moment. But today felt like a day where it wouldn’t split. And feelings were everything. Whenever Victoria felt something, it was usually right. And that is why, when Harry didn’t come through the door of Lace Antiques that day, or the next day, or the day after that, Victoria couldn’t quite believe it.

Surely the Robert Bell talks have been arranged by now, Victoria thought on Friday. Her mother had been in bed all week, and her father rarely bothered to work in the shop, so Victoria had spent three days waiting for the door to open and Harry to saunter in. She couldn’t remember if he was the sauntering kind, but she thought that he might be.

‘Where is he?’ she asked Frederick the cat. ‘Do you think he’ll ever return here?’

Frederick glanced at her regally, then began licking his pristine grey coat. Victoria touched her shoulder where Frederick’s claws had dug into her when Harry had been there. The mark had gone, she had seen that morning as she had dressed; the final speck of dried blood had been brushed away to reveal brand-new skin. It was, quite simply, as though nothing had ever happened.

Suddenly alive with frustration, Victoria took one final look at the unmoving front door, burst out of the back of the shop and flew up the narrow stairs and along the landing to her mother’s bedroom. She swung the door open, stagnant air rushing from the room in a bid to escape.

‘Are you getting up today, Mum? I need to leave the shop. I need to go out somewhere.’

There was a murmur from the bed, from beneath the mound of knotted blankets and pillows.

‘Mum?’

It was quite normal for Victoria’s mother to spend days, sometimes weeks, in bed. Mrs Lace did not live, she slept. Sometimes, she would get dressed and float down to the shop, stinking of perfume, long strings of pearls rattling around her slender neck. But then Victoria’s father would storm home and shout something, or worse, smoulder silently and then push past them both. Silence meant the worst, because silence was normally followed by a storm. Storms were followed by the pearls being hung up in an upstairs cupboard, the perfume fading, and Victoria’s mother returning to her bed for a week or so.

‘I heard you, darling. I’ll be down later, perhaps.’

Victoria stood in the doorway of the bedroom. The air was heavy with sleep, with heavy breaths and dreams and sweat. Her mother’s bony body was motionless in the middle of the bed somewhere. Victoria gazed at the dressing table to her right, from which makeup and jewellery spilled. She wandered over and touched a lipstick. Her mother still did not move. Victoria picked the lipstick up, twisting the base to reveal a shock of pointed red wax. She stared at the lipstick for a moment before twisting it back down and replacing the lid with a quiet click. Clutching it, she turned around.

‘Be careful with that,’ she heard her mother murmur as Victoria left the room.

By the time Victoria had applied the lipstick and wiped away the smear that bled out from her top lip onto her pale skin, and put on her favourite yellow shoes, and transferred the small amount of money in the till to the locked cabinet in the kitchen, as she did every night, it was almost three o’clock. Victoria’s father was normally back home at around seven, after drinking in The Smuggler’s Ship.

Four hours was plenty.

She locked the shop door quietly, just in case the sound did make her mother get up out of bed. As she left Lace Antiques and stepped out onto Castle Street, Victoria stole a brief glance at her mother’s bedroom window upstairs. Her jittering heart stilled when greeted with unmoving curtains, behind which a sleepy darkness was promised.

From the rocky beach at the bottom end, Silenshore rose upwards in an uneven hill, to where the silvery-grey spires of the University rose into the clouds. Victoria could remember being tugged along by her mother on rare occasions when she was very small, up Castle Street, and perhaps into the butcher’s and the bakery and Boots the chemist. But every time they got near the top of the hill, where the fragrance of salt and sand faded and was replaced by the damp, dark scent of the old castle towering above them, her mother would grip Victoria’s hand so tightly that Victoria could feel their bones clicking against each other, and they would turn around to walk home in a mysterious silence. So Victoria had never, ever gone further than a third of the way up the hill, past the colourful, exotic window of Harper’s Dresses.

Until now.

The spring air was warm and as she walked briskly upwards, Victoria felt her clothes become damp with perspiration. She stopped for a moment and sat on a bench outside Harper’s. Fumbling with her handbag, she took out a mint and placed it on her tongue. She hadn’t been nervous before she’d left the shop, so where had the sudden shaking fingers, the shallow breaths come from?

She crunched down on the mint, and stood up, swallowing the glassy fragments as she neared the wide expanse of shadows cast down by the sprawling university. Now that she was getting closer to the imposing stone building, the looming, ghostly turrets that Victoria had gazed at so many times throughout her childhood were somehow less intimidating, and more elegant than Victoria had ever noticed. Arched windows glittered beneath them, the golden stone carved with intricate detail to frame the leaded glass.

Victoria followed the signs for the English department and, with short breaths and the image of Harry firmly before her eyes, picked up pace along the cobbles. Although the term was probably over, he might still be busy speaking to students or other lecturers. But as soon as he saw that Victoria was outside his office, he might dismiss them. They would pass her, whispering the rumours they had heard about Harry’s new love who had the name of a queen, who had raven-black hair and porcelain skin, that this must be her, that she was just like the girl everyone was talking about.

The English department was in a squat building that lacked the drama of the rest of the castle. That was a shame, Victoria thought as she stepped through the green swinging door. It would have been quite nice to have her romance begin in the mystical, shining castle, rather than a dreary hut that reminded her of her old school. When she reached the office with Harry’s name on the door, Victoria glanced behind her to check that nobody was watching, and pressed her fist quietly against the bright teak.

Nothing.

She leaned her head against the wood and listened hard. The faint rustling of papers came from within. He was in there, then. She knocked again, more of a rap this time: the knock of somebody who meant business. The sound of rustling was quickly replaced by the creak of a chair and two light footsteps. Then the door swung open.

His face was squarer than Victoria had remembered, but no less exquisite for it. His hair, which she had taken for black, was actually the dark brown of cocoa. He ran his hand through it and ruffled it slightly.

‘Victoria! What a nice surprise to see you here!’

‘I’m sorry to come uninvited.’

Harry frowned. ‘Not at all.’

‘It’s just that I was thinking about the Robert Bell talk. I wondered if you’d managed to get it arranged yet.’

Harry gazed at Victoria for a few more seconds. He ran his hand through his hair again, looked behind him into the untidy, square office that lay beyond the door, and then nodded.

‘Forgive me if I appear distracted. Seeing you just…I was very much in my own world before you came. But I have arranged the talk by Robert Bell,’ Harry continued. ‘It’s next week. I was going to come to the shop this weekend and tell you.’

Victoria looked back up at him. ‘Really?’

He smiled then, a generous, wide smile that took her back to the dream she’d had last night. It wasn’t so much a dream, more of an image that had endured in her mind for the whole night, of Harry taking her hand and smiling at her, again and again as she tossed around underneath her tangle of blankets.

‘Yes. I was looking forward to seeing you again. The talk is on Monday at four. If you get here a bit earlier, you’ll get a good seat.’

‘Then I will be here at half past three,’ Victoria said, feeling a strange excitement crackling in the air around them.

‘I’ll look forward to it.’ Harry looked for a few moments as though he wanted to say more, but then somebody came down the corridor, and Harry smiled once more, then disappeared back into his office, closing his door gently behind him.

On Monday night, Victoria’s father was travelling to London and staying overnight so that he could attend an auction in London on Tuesday. Normally, when he visited auctions, the time he was gone was filled with a crisp, brittle tension. If he was what he called winning at the auction, then a couple of days later he would return home drunk, buoyant, red-faced with alcoholic cheer. If he wasn’t winning, if some other sod had bought up the collection he wanted, the one that would make Lace Antiques get through another blasted winter, then he would crash home drunk, pale and angry. Sometimes, if she was up to it, Mrs Lace went with her husband to the auctions. She had her uses, being so beautiful. She could sometimes make the auctioneer overlook a nod or a tap on the opposite side of the room.

Tuesday’s auction in London was an important one, and Victoria’s mother found enough spirit in her to get out of bed, hang some beads around her neck that she said were lucky, pack her small, mint-green suitcase and disappear off with Victoria’s father.

‘We’ll see you tomorrow, darling,’ she said, disappearing through the shop’s front door in a cloud of Chanel No 5.

Victoria had already made the sign that she would put on the shop door whilst she was gone. She had sat crossed-legged on the floor in her bedroom when her parents had gone to bed the night before, writing in large black letters on a piece of card:

TAKEN ILL. PLEASE COME BACK TOMORROW.

She had been sick, she would tell her parents if they somehow found out the shop had been left closed this afternoon. She had suddenly been as sick as a dog, gone to bed for a few hours, but was much better now. Who could argue with that?

Now, she taped the sign to the glass on the front door, her fingers trembling a little with thrill at the thought of seeing Harry again.

The walk to the University was longer than Victoria had remembered, and her limbs were tight with anticipation by the time she arrived at the majestic iron gates. With a judder of nerves, she remembered that Harry hadn’t told her which room the talk was being held in. She looked at her watch. Ten past three. She was a little early, but Harry had told her to get a good seat and she simply couldn’t have waited any longer. She walked down the tree-lined driveway and looked around her, gazing at the high stone buildings and the squat little place where Harry’s office was, searching for some kind of clue as to where she should be. Perhaps Harry expected her to meet him in his office?

A group of girls went past, swinging their satchels from their shoulders confidently and chatting loudly about the dancing they had done the night before.

‘Excuse me?’ Victoria said. ‘Are you here for the Robert Bell talk?’

They continued on as though she hadn’t spoken, bags swinging, heels clicking. Apart from them, there was nobody else around.

Well, if nobody was going to speak to her, she had no choice but to just find Harry. The door to the English block clanged shut behind her as she peered down the corridor and saw that his office door was open this time. Quickening her pace, she reached Harry just as he was leaving his office and locking the door. He spun around, the white grin that melted Victoria’s insides broad on his face.

‘Victoria! I was just wondering if you’d arrive soon. You’re early, that’s good. You can come over with me and meet Robert, if you like.’

It was at this moment, a moment which should have been a pure beam of elation, that Victoria realised with a jolt that she’d forgotten her copy of The Blue Door. She could see it in her mind, lying under some papers on the counter at Lace Antiques. In fact, she hadn’t even picked up the book since the day that Harry had come in. How had she been so silly? She should have finished reading it and brought it with her for Robert Bell to sign. Now Harry would think that she didn’t appreciate meeting Robert. She looked up at Harry’s face, which was bright in expectation.

‘I’ve forgotten my copy of The Blue Door,’ Victoria blurted out.

Harry turned back to his door and rattled his key back into the lock. He emerged seconds later and held out a worn edition of the book.

‘Here you go. Have my copy. I wasn’t going to get it signed, so you might as well.’

Victoria took the book from Harry, aware that their fingers were going to meet, aware that tonight’s sleep would again be a blur of Harry’s face, his voice, his scent.

‘Thank you, Harry. I haven’t had a chance to finish it, but I-’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. Mr Bell won’t mind at all, as long as you’re enjoying it?’

They were walking now, out of the low building and into the warm, green air of summer. The castle spread out before them, its pale-gold stone gleaming in the sun.

‘Oh, I am. At least, I was. I haven’t read for a while. I’ve not been able to concentrate,’ Victoria said. It was as though Harry pulled her thoughts from her like a magnet. She shouldn’t have told him that, should she? Sally always said that you should make boys work for you. You shouldn’t let on that you liked them quite as much as you did.

But as she glanced at Harry, his strides long, his emerald-green tie blowing slightly in the pleasant breeze, his jaw strong, his countenance confident of exactly where he was going, Victoria realised that what Sally said about boys bore absolutely no relation to Harry, because Harry was a man, and what was more, he was the man who Victoria was going to marry.

‘Ah,’ Harry said. ‘So who do you think has the missing girl?’

Victoria forced her mind to return from her daydreams and gathered her thoughts back to when she had last read some of The Blue Door. ‘I don’t know yet. I feel as though we’re meant to think the girl’s teacher has kidnapped her. But I don’t think that he has a house with blue doors in it. He lives in a small flat, doesn’t he? And the ransom note said that she was behind a blue door. The man who plays music on the street is rather strange, but I think he’s too much of an obvious choice.’

‘What do you make of the detective?’

‘Oh, I like him. He’s not very confident in himself, but I think he should be. I’m sure he’ll crack the mystery.’

‘Well, you try and beat him to it. I’m positive that you will. You’re clever enough,’ Harry said, as he pushed open a set of heavy double doors.

The room where the talk was to take place was not so much a room but a theatre. The worn red chairs ascended up from the wide expanse of stage and were all empty. Victoria imagined what it would be like to sit in the theatre and listen to lectures about books, writing and poetry. Why had it never occurred to her before that there was a life outside Lace Antiques? Sitting in these red chairs and listening to lectures about books would be nothing like the monotony of school. It would be a whole new exciting world.

‘He’s not here yet,’ Harry said. ‘Why don’t we sit down? He won’t be long.’

‘Did you always know you wanted to work here?’ Victoria asked him, settling into a red seat that was harder and less inviting than it looked.

‘Yes. I did, actually. I used to live at the top of the hill and look up at the spires of the castle from my bedroom window and wonder how I’d cope if I didn’t one day have something to do with it. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Victoria nodded vigorously. ‘It’s very beautiful. I’ve always wanted to come here and my mother never let me. But whenever I’m walking up Castle Street and I see the castle it seems to want to pull me in somehow.’

Harry nodded. ‘I agree. I always felt rather the same. But the funny thing is, even though I got what I wanted, and I work here, I’m stuck in the ugliest block of the lot. No spires, no turrets, no nothing.’

Victoria laughed. ‘I’d noticed that. You should ask to be moved to the very top of the highest turret.’

‘I might!’ Harry laughed too, and Victoria fought the urge to touch him somehow, satisfying herself slightly by shuffling a little further towards him.

‘Have you worked here long?’ she asked.

‘Eight years. I studied English here and then a few years later I started as an assistant lecturer.’

‘Your dream came true,’ Victoria pointed out.

Harry gazed at Victoria for a few moments, something flickering across his features. ‘I suppose it did. Well, one of them did, at least.’

Victoria stared back at him, until they heard the heavy door of the lecture theatre swing open and the air in the room shifted with the presence of another person.

‘Ah. Here’s Robert,’ Harry said, touching Victoria’s hand and then standing up. ‘Let’s get started.’

Robert Bell was much shorter than Victoria had imagined him to be, with tufts of grey hair and a rather round belly. He smiled at Victoria and held out his hand to shake it. She took it, the new thrill of shaking hands with authors and sitting in lecture theatres flickering inside her like a candle.

‘Robert, this is Victoria Lace, one of your biggest fans,’ Harry said to Robert.

‘I’m reading The Blue Door at the moment,’ Victoria said, handing Harry’s copy of the book to Robert. ‘I haven’t finished it, I’m afraid, although I’m very much enjoying it. I was wondering if you’d sign it for me?’

‘Of course,’ said Robert, taking a pen from his breast pocket.

To Miss Lace

May your life be filled with dreams come true and blue doors opened.

Best wishes,

Robert Bell

Victoria read it and smiled at Robert. She thought of the sudden new feelings she had since she’d met Harry, the empty shop, the TAKEN ILL sign, her absent parents.

‘Thank you, Mr Bell. I hope so too.’

The lecture theatre began to fill up soon after Robert had signed Victoria’s book. Robert spoke quietly and the audience strained to hear his words. He talked about how he never, ever planned his books, how he wrote every day in his shed (even in the winter, he said) and how the characters became as important to him as his friends (some girls at the back sniggered at this).

‘You have to write about what you know,’ Robert said towards the end of his talk. ‘Or at least start with that. Write about the kind of people, places and feelings you know, and the rest will follow.’

Victoria gazed at Robert as he spoke. What did she know? The shop, her favourite novels, her sleeping mother and her angry father. That wasn’t enough. Her eyes drifted over to Harry and lingered on him for a while. What would it be like to know him: to know him properly? What would it be like to know how his skin smelt when he first woke up, and how his hair felt beneath her fingertips, and how his voice changed when he was frustrated, or excited, or sad? Her blood fizzed and tingled beneath her skin as she watched him. A daydream began to cloud her mind, where she lived with Harry and could touch him and talk to him whenever she wanted. The daydream flickered before her eyes, beautiful and inspiring, gently lulling her along to the dulcet melody of Robert Bell’s voice.

When the talk had finished, and Robert had answered a smattering of questions, the theatre slowly emptied, the prospective students numb and silent after an hour of being talked at. Robert spoke briefly to Harry and appearing to be relieved to take up his notes, waved at Victoria and left the room.

The theatre was now empty except for Victoria and Harry. They were back where they had started.

‘Thank you for letting me have your book signed,’ Victoria said as she stood and wandered over to the stage. ‘Perhaps I could bring you my copy instead? And then it’ll have been a straight swap.’

‘I’d like that. So, what did you think of Robert Bell?’

‘I thought he was wonderful. I want to be a writer too.’

‘What do you want to write?’

‘I want to write mysteries, like he does. Nobody would expect me to write mysteries. I’d like to surprise everyone.’

‘Well, remember where you started, won’t you. When you’re a famous mystery author, remember who introduced you to your muse.’

Victoria nodded and stared up at Harry so hard, so intently, that she ached.

‘I’m quite sorry that the talk is over. It feels so very flat going back home after that,’ she admitted.

Harry looked at his watch. ‘Would you like to get a drink?’ he asked after a few seconds. ‘I’d quite like some fresh air and a walk, if you’d like to join me.’

Chapter 5
Isobel: 2010

My Queen Victoria,

Sarah and I had a silly disagreement today, which culminated in her throwing an omelette at me, just like you did on that wonderful day that feels like so long ago. I should have been angry at Sarah, or at the least, shamed. Instead it made me think of you: your sweet, sweet kisses and your terrible cooking. I would rather eat a raw omelette every day than be without you.

Write to me.

H

On Friday, Isobel stays in her classroom for a while after the last class has gone. She marks practice exams, ticking and crossing deftly, until the pile on her desk is finished. She stands up and grabs her coat from the back of the chair, shivering as the cool air from the room snakes around her. As she glances out of the window, she sees something that makes her move closer to the glass. Tom’s Volkswagen Polo is parked outside and if she squints Isobel can see Tom sitting in the driver’s seat. He must be waiting for her, although they haven’t planned anything: Tom said he was working tonight and Isobel has plans for a night in with Iris.

Isobel takes her bag from the desk and rushes from her classroom and down the staircase. The side entrance is locked, so she flies through the main doors and round to where Tom waits.

‘What’s the matter?’ she says breathlessly as she pulls the passenger door open.

Tom leans over and grins. ‘It’s a good job Iris warned me you’d come out late, otherwise I might have thought you’d succumbed to the curse of the vanishing people of Silenshore!’

‘But what are you doing here? I thought you were working tonight.’

‘Nope. Get in.’

Iris throws her bag into the foot well and climbs into the car, still catching her breath. ‘When did you speak to Iris?’

‘When she was helping me plan this weekend. She told me what to pack for you. I didn’t have a clue.’

‘Pack? For what?’

‘Oh, I’m taking you away for a night. It’s been a crazy few weeks, what with our shock and everything. I think we need a treat. We’re driving to London tonight. It’ll be late when we get there but we’ll stay over, then spend the day there tomorrow. If you want to, that is.’

Isobel feels her heart rush at Tom, the way he’s packed the car – she sees her floral weekend bag squashed onto the backseat – the way he’s spoken to Iris and planned a surprise. ‘Nobody’s ever done anything like this for me before,’ she says.

‘Well, I’m glad to be the one to do it, then,’ Tom says as he starts the car. He leans across and kisses her softly on the cheek. ‘Ready?’

‘You really have all my stuff?’ Isobel asks, incredulous.

‘Yep. Straighteners, shampoo and conditioner, your facewash in the green bottle, some blue dress that Iris picked, phone charger, makeup bag, toothbrush…I think that’s it, isn’t it?’

‘Pyjamas?’

Tom wiggles his eyebrows comically. ‘Not needed.’

Isobel laughs, excitement fizzing up inside her and spilling out. ‘Then let’s go!’

The next morning, after lying under the crisp, tight hotel sheets and sitting in a warm bath filled with chalky complimentary bath salts, Isobel kneels on the floor in front of a brightly lit mirror and puts on her makeup. Her skin has always been clear and pale, but pregnancy is doing strange things to her, sending chemicals soaring through her blood and out of her pores. Her face is rounder now, too. She brushes some translucent powder over her pink cheeks and sits back.

‘So are you still not going to tell me what we’re doing today?’ she asks Tom, who is lying on the bed reading the free newspaper.

He puts the paper down on the bed and sits forward. After staring at her own face in the mirror, Isobel feels a surge of pleasure from looking at Tom’s. His features are defined, but not sharp. His teeth are straight and white. She went out with a man before Tom whose teeth you couldn’t see because he never really smiled, so that every time she wasn’t with him, she couldn’t remember what his teeth looked like. With Tom, she can always picture his smile perfectly.

‘No, I’m not telling you anything yet’ he says. ‘You’ll find out where we’re going when we get there.’

‘Are you driving us there?’

‘No, we’ll leave the car parked here.’

‘Well, then, I’ll know what we’re doing when we get off the Tube.’

‘We’re not getting the Tube,’ Tom says, moving from the bed and sitting on the floor next to Isobel amongst lipstick and powder, eyeliner and blusher brushes.

‘Well, then I’ll know when you tell the cab driver.’

Tom shakes his head and laughs. ‘Smart arse.’

When they climb into the juddering black Hackney cab that smells of the cabbie’s leather jacket and yesterday’s cigarettes, Tom hands him a note that Isobel saw him scribble in the hotel reception just before they left. The driver rolls his eyes, gives a brief nod, then swings the cab out of the hotel’s grounds and onto the road carelessly.

When the taxi stops, Tom turns to Isobel and raises a dark eyebrow.

‘Portobello Road!’ she gasps.

‘Yeah. You’ve mentioned that you like vintage things a lot, so I thought we should do this kind of thing before our shopping consists only of Mothercare trips.’

Isobel squeals, and sees the taxi driver rolls his eyes again through the smeared rearview mirror. She takes out her bright-purple purse and pushes some money through the partition, waving away Tom’s money.

‘Can I have the note, please?’ she asks. The driver twists around, confusion blurring his unpleasantly roguish features. ‘The one that my partner gave you when we set off,’ she says, looking at him expectantly.

It’s pushed back through the glass, along with her change, creased and dented by pound coins. She looks down at the piece of paper as the cab rattles off down the road. Tom’s writing is block-like, square.

Please take us to Portobello Market, but don’t tell her – it’s a surprise!

Tom takes her hand. ‘What did you ask him to give you that for?’

Isobel clutches it to her chest. ‘I want to keep it. Today is perfect and I want to always remember it.’

It’s still early and the morning air is crisp and cold. They meander through the endless antiques, Isobel stopping at the brightly coloured jewellery stalls and gazing out over the amber brooches, mint-green bracelets, glittering black-stone rings.

‘Are you going to get something?’ Tom asks.

‘Yes. Definitely.’

They stop at a stall crammed with stock: elegant teapots, jewellery, gold-rimmed saucers, china animals, staring Victorian dolls.

‘Look! We could get the baby something,’ Isobel says, reaching for a small doll with china lips and stiff black curls.

Tom grimaces and backs away slightly. ‘I don’t know. Something about old things like that freaks me out. Especially dolls.’

Isobel nestles the doll back amongst the others. ‘I love them. But we can leave it if you want. It might even be a boy. If it’s a girl, we can get her a vintage doll when she’s a bit older. Look at this, though.’ She pulls a ring with a ruby-coloured stone from the mass of items. ‘It’s beautiful.’

‘Taking it, love?’ the female seller asks, not missing a beat. ‘Ruby is the stone of love and energy. It keeps you safe and makes you powerful. Warns you of danger too.’

Her voice is monotone: it’s as though the woman is reading from a prompt card for the hundredth time that week, and the stone in the ring obviously isn’t a real ruby, but there’s something about the words that Isobel likes. She slides the cool ring onto her middle finger and moves her head, watching the red stone twinkle in the weak light. ‘Yes. I will,’ she says. She picks up a turquoise compact mirror in the shape of a rose. ‘I’ll take this, too.’

‘You’ll be safe now,’ the woman says as she stuffs Isobel’s notes into her till.

A couple of weeks after their London trip, Isobel lies in Tom’s bed, staring up at his cracked grey ceiling. He always wakes later than her. Every time she’s stayed over here, she has woken early and listened to Tom’s easy breaths and the sound of the thrashing sea.

It is Sunday. Exactly two months to the day that Isobel and Tom first met.

Isobel turns over onto her side, stares out of the curtainless window at the blank grey sky, and waits for Tom to wake up.

‘Happy anniversary,’ she says when he does. She leans across him, into the warmth of his sleep and kisses his forehead.

‘Anniversary? How long have I been asleep?’ Tom asks lazily, draping an arm over Isobel.

‘Oh, a hundred years.’

‘Then our baby is a hundred years old now?’

Isobel laughs and kisses Tom again. ‘It’s our two-month anniversary. I was just thinking, it’s two months since we met in September.’

‘Wow. It seems longer. I can’t imagine not knowing you.’

‘I know. I can’t imagine things any different, now. The baby, us.’

‘Let’s celebrate. I’m off today, so let’s go out for lunch somewhere, and then look for some things for the baby.’

Isobel imagines a shop full of married couples and bright toys and muted newborn clothes: lemon and white and beige. She feels the tug of excitement that has been bubbling inside her for the past few weeks, even stronger now.

‘Okay. Let’s do it.’

After lunch in Mayor’s, the high street’s biggest café, they drive to a nursery shop just outside Silenshore in a grey retail park with huge square chain stores lined with car parks and trolleys. The shop smells sweet, like talcum powder and fresh cotton. Isobel stares at the prams and cots and car seats. Tom leans over them, checking the straps and the mattresses, muttering things about regulations and price.

‘It’s bad luck to buy a pram before the baby’s born. We can’t get a pram today,’ Isobel says as she sees Tom checking the price dangling from a tight black hood.

‘I’m just looking,’ he murmurs, before wandering over to the cribs.

Isobel pushes one gently and it rocks. She moves along the aisle, through wooden and white cribs, until she reaches the last one. It’s mahogany: a dark, luscious colour that reminds Isobel of another place and time.

‘I like this one,’ she calls to Tom. He puts down a yellow blanket and walks over to her.

‘It’s very nice,’ he says as Isobel runs her fingers along the glossy wooden sides. ‘Do you prefer that to white?’

Isobel nods emphatically. ‘Yes, definitely. Why, do you prefer white?’

Tom laughs and puts his hands up in mock defense. ‘No, no. I was just checking that you were happy with your choice.’

‘Shall we go back to mine once we’ve paid for it?’ he asks. ‘I’ll put the crib together, and we can see how it looks. If we know we’re happy with it then we can take it down again and store it until the baby arrives.’

‘Okay.’ Isobel feels doubt niggling at her, but pushes it away impatiently. ‘Sounds great.’

Once Tom has carried the box up the stairs to his flat, and Isobel has made them a cup of tea each, and they have sat and sipped it, listening to the patter of the rain that soon turns into pelting shards of water against the glass and into the sea outside, Tom opens the box and peers inside.

About twenty minutes later the crib is made. Tom works methodically, taking the instructions seriously, frowning at the paper and the letter-coded parts and the minute screws that scatter from his hands and roll across the uneven floor.

Isobel knows as soon as he makes the frame. She knew it in the shop, really, but refused to succumb to the doubt. Now, there’s no avoiding it, no pushing it aside.

The crib is too big.

It won’t fit in the bedroom. It only just fits in the lounge, in front of the television, with the coffee table pushed up against the window.

They stare at it, their eyes glazing over. As soon as one of them says it, it’s real.

‘There’s no room for it, is there?’ Isobel says eventually.

Tom shrugs, but his face is ever so slightly pink with the stress of the tiny screws and the letters, and now the dimensions that mean all his efforts are wasted. ‘I’ll carry it to my bedroom, and we’ll see if there’s any way it’ll fit in there.’

Isobel follows him, watching as he sets the crib down at the door, watching as he shuffles it further into the room, until it won’t go in any more.

‘It won’t fit,’ he says eventually. ‘I’m not sure what we can do, other than perhaps get a smaller bed. Or a smaller crib. But the others were pretty much the same size, as far as I can remember.’

Isobel stares at the mahogany bars that are wedged between Tom’s bed and the door. If the crib is left there, she’ll have to vault over it to get to bed.

‘What about your flat?’ Tom asks.

‘My bedroom isn’t much bigger than yours. And anyway, that website I was looking at last night said that the baby will only be in our room for six months max. What will we do after that?’

Last night, when Isobel was reading an article on newborn sleep, six months had seemed like a lifetime. Now, it seems like an impossibly short time to adjust to another person with a mahogany crib and a need for a bedroom of its own.

Tom drops onto the bed. ‘I’m not sure,’ he says. ‘Did you find out how long you’re contracted to stay in your flat?’

‘Yes. Only another few months.’

Tom nods. ‘Okay. I suppose it’s irrelevant, really, because I have to pay rent for here for almost another year. I can’t afford more rent on top of that.’

‘And I won’t be able to afford much more once I’m on maternity pay,’ Isobel says. Her temples ache and she rubs them. ‘What are we going to do?’

Tom thinks, is silent. The wind cracks against the windows outside, whipping the sea and the sand up and slamming them against the panes. Eventually, he looks at Isobel and takes a deep breath.

‘I have an idea. But I’m not sure you’ll like it.’

Isobel nods. ‘Go on.’

Chapter 6
Evelyn: 1947

Evelyn dropped one more pair of stockings into the case that lay open on her bed. It was quite full, but then it was very difficult to know what to pack, and so she’d thrown in quite a lot. She stood up, excitement flooding through her as she looked out of her tall bedroom window at Silenshore.

Today was the day.

Today, from her position at the end of the elegant castle, Evelyn felt like she was on the very edge of the world, in control of everything. She was eighteen now, and she had waited, year after year, for her life to jolt into action, to somehow be catapulted into Hollywood as she’d planned. She’d read in her mother’s magazines about stars like Carole Lombard, who had been spotted by film directors in the street and offered film roles that changed everything. She imagined it happening to her: a frantic packing of her mother’s best suitcase, a tangle of necklaces being thrown in along with lipsticks and perfumes and furs, a tearful goodbye as Evelyn left for a sudden new life. But it hadn’t happened yet, because Evelyn barely left the castle. There was nowhere to go in Silenshore. There was nothing to do and nobody to meet. Years ago, Evelyn might have met someone useful at one of her parents’ parties. But since the war, there weren’t as many parties as Evelyn would have liked. In fact, there were hardly any.

Poor Mary, the evacuee, had been right when she’d said the war would change everything: it had. But it hadn’t changed enough for Evelyn. She would have to do that herself. And she couldn’t wait for life to come and claim her any longer. She needed to go and claim her life.

Throwing open the huge dark oak doors of her wardrobe, Evelyn was greeted by her own scent, as a stranger might be. It smelt of spring flowers and sugar. That would change. A new life had to have a new, more mature, scent. She reached into the wardrobe and pulled out a yellow crepe dress. Yellow was the perfect colour. There was, she was sure, a pair of yellow shoes at the back of her wardrobe that she hadn’t worn since last summer. She fell down to her hands and knees, and scrambled amongst her things until she found one of the shoes. The other was further back; she could see its heel sticking out from a mound of bags. As she pulled the bags out of the way, her fingers fell onto something cool and sharp: the mirror. She yanked it from the tangle of straps, and ran her hands over the cool glass.

She’d put the mirror back in her mother’s drawer all those years ago, after the game of dares with the evacuees. She’d never had a real reason to take it again: there were certainly no more games of dares after the children had returned to their homes in London a few months after they’d arrived. But still, Evelyn hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. It was as though, childish as it sounded when she thought about it now, the mirror wanted Evelyn to have it. She’d creep into her mother’s room to just touch it, to glance in it, to stare down at the beautiful blue sapphires that framed the glass. In the end, she’d hidden it in her own room, and if her mother had noticed it missing then she hadn’t said anything.

Her mother.

At the thought of Mrs du Rêve, Evelyn felt an immediate rush of guilt. It had been so easy for Evelyn to tell her the white lie: that she was going to stay with Mary in London for a while. Evelyn and Mary had scribbled out letter after letter to each other all through the war. Strong, brave Mary. Evelyn would have given anything for that to be true. But as bombs fell down on London like raindrops, Mary’s letters stopped. She’d written to Mary again and again but the lack of reply told her more than she needed to know. Evelyn’s mother didn’t know that Mary had stopped writing, didn’t know that Evelyn was actually rushing into London by herself, to claim the glittering life that belonged to her. Evelyn had expected Mrs du Rêve to scoff at the idea of going to stay with a common girl in the East End. But she hadn’t, which had made Evelyn feel even more guilty. But if she’d told her mother the truth, she wouldn’t have agreed to it. So there had simply been no choice.

Evelyn blinked at her reflection, then laid the mirror in her case, between the folds of a skirt. There was no way she could leave the castle without it.

The castle gardens smelt of ripe fruit and September sunshine and flowers: the perfect scent for such a glorious day. Evelyn hurried down Castle Street with her suitcase, drawn by the sea that glinted as though it was filled with jagged diamonds. She wanted to throw herself into the cool, silver waves, to plunge into the silence of the water, to rise up again and thrash her arms and legs around, and then lie on craggy rocks under the sun. Her legs propelled her further and further forwards, until she saw something that made her stop and stand still, her heart pounding, her mouth wide open to draw in huge lungfuls of salty air.

It was a shop, but it looked more like a cavern or a witch’s den full of twinkling beauty. Evelyn looked at her watch. It was ten to twelve, so if she hurried, she had time to go into the shop before the train to London arrived in fifteen minutes.

As Evelyn stepped inside, she stared around at the gems and pearls and gold and silver that spilt out from every cabinet and shelf. The man behind the counter smiled at her, his eyes tracing her young, curving figure and she blushed with the exotic pleasure of a man’s gaze. He was handsome: broad, masculine and dark, like a king of a faraway country.

The man stared at Evelyn for what seemed like a long time. Then he smiled and his whole face changed. ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

Evelyn grinned at him. ‘I couldn’t help but come into your shop. I’ve lived in the castle all my life, but I’ve never noticed it before.’

The man smiled back. ‘I’ve just opened. Only been in Silenshore a few weeks. But it looks like we have bad timing. Have I moved here just as you’re leaving?’

Evelyn felt an unexpected prickle of disappointment about her plans. ‘Yes, I suppose we have. I’m off to London. My train’s in fifteen minutes.’

‘Oh, well, if you’re going to London then I’ll let you off. It’s one of the best places you can go to. Which part?’

Evelyn remembered the address Mary used to write from. She didn’t know many places in London, so that would have to do. ‘Bethnal Green,’ she said. ‘But I probably won’t stay there long,’ she hurried on. ‘I want to see all the different parts of the city.’

‘Have you got someone to show you round?

Evelyn looked down at a table that glinted with a rainbow of colour and fingered some green glass beads. She wanted to tell this man the truth, all about how she was going to arrive in London and try to get a job, to start all over again and take some classes in acting. But if her mother were to ask around… ‘Yes. I’m going to stay with a friend,’ she said reluctantly.

‘That’s good. Can’t have a beautiful lady like you wandering the streets of London alone.’

Something inside Evelyn bloomed at his words, as though he’d unlocked needs she hadn’t even known were there. She looked around: there were clocks everywhere, swinging pendulums and ticking hands that reminded her how close her train was getting.

‘Do you know London well?’ she asked the man, her hands lingering around the beads.

‘It’s where I’m from. I go back all the time to the auctions. I know a lot of people there. If there’s anything you want from London, I can get it for you.’