The Storyteller's Muse
Author: Traci Harding
Date: 2016-02-02 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy; Fiction; Paranormal; Contemporary
Description: Bestselling author Traci Harding moves into commercial fiction with a story of intrigue and deception. A bitter writer, an enthusiastic protege and a story that must be told. Peter is a young nurse and aspiring author whose professional dreams have come true - a patient in his care, Penelope, needs someone to transcribe her final story. Revolving around four friends sharing an apartment where they hone their artistic and musical skills, Peter soon realises there is more to the story - another presence is lurking in the building, an intriguing, creative, temperamental force that goes by the nam
Publisher: Voyager

DEDICATION

For all the amazing authors
who have been my writing siblings and confidants
throughout my writing life.

This book draws inspiration from you all.

CONTENTS

1. Dedication
2. List of Characters
3. Inspiration
4. The Set-Up
5. Characters
6. Development
7. Plot
8. The Transcendental Creative
9. Subplot
10. A Turning Point
11. Writer’s Block
12. Research
13. Writers’ Group
14. A Period Piece
15. Plot Twist
16. Chasing Clues
17. Fieldwork
18. Anti-Climax
19. The End
20. Epilogue — The Prologue
21. About the Author
22. Also by Traci Harding
23. Copyright

Guide

1. Cover
2. Contents
3. Chapter 1

i
ii
iii
iv
v
vi
vii
viii
ix
x
xi
xii
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372

LIST OF CHARACTERS

Author — Penelope Whitman

Night nurse — Peter Lemond

Day nurse — Gabrielle Valdez

Gabrielle’s grandmother — Alejandra

Literary agent — Fabrizia Zenton

Relief nurse — Rebecca Henly

Paranormal romance author — Denise ‘Denny’ Yin

Dark fantasy author — Fred E Books — Food Slayer

Horror author — Spooky Burns

Eco-thriller author — Joe Jackman

Historical fantasy author — Tamar Ruban

Housekeepers, Whitman estate — Wilfred and Thelma Eddington

Penelope’s daughter — Evelyn Porter

Penelope’s lawyer — Martyn Webster

Real estate agent — Barry

West End Construction — Steve

The Apartment

The writer — Nathaniel Fitzroy

The dancer — Monique Poe

The painter — Tyme Dancer

The musician — Julian Cooper-Smith

Julian’s band: Max — drums, Kevin — bass, Tommy — keyboards

The ghost — Em Jewel

Nathaniel’s wife — Jenna

Nathaniel’s baby daughter — Amy

Julian’s girlfriend — Sofie

1950s

The writer — Penelope Cavanagh

The dancer — Isabelle Basque

The musician — Billy Boyle

The artist — Fabian Donati

1916–40s

The artist — Emanuel Fairchild

The cellist — Emeline Fairchild

The butler — Henry Chesterfield

The collector — Lord Reginald Pettigrew ‘Proudfoot’

Lord Pettigrew’s manservant — Mr Hugo Perkins

Head maidservant — Mrs Beech

Midwife — Sister Janet Cole

Emeline’s assistant — Alice Roy aka Maggie (Margret) Wright

Gallery owner — Miss Florence Manning

‘I write, therefore I am.’

INSPIRATION

Penelope’s favourite place had always been her own mind, so growing old didn’t particularly bother her. As long as she could still follow her own train of thought, she would happily keep herself amused until her ageing body finally called it quits. Her eyes were useless — even with several sets of glasses she could no longer read for any great length of time. Her hands were inflamed with arthritis, as were most of her joints. She could have continued to write by dictating her tales, a technique she’d tried for her last book, five years ago. The frustration of working with someone else had put her off ever attempting the feat again. Her writing life was over. She’d shared as much of herself as she cared to and now her imagination was her own.

It was a stormy evening, the rain pounded against the large windows of her room; Penelope had always found such conditions conducive to writing — perhaps because she had no desire to be outdoors and wasn’t missing out on a beautiful day. Not that it mattered too much; she’d create in any conditions, but rainy days were truly inspirational.

There was one tale that she had been musing forever that she had not set to paper, as other stories had taken priority or proven more viable for the marketplace. She’d made up a million reasons over the years not to write it down as, in truth, this one scared her a little. But the muse of story was still hanging around in her mind, running and rerunning scenes, and Penelope knew this would not cease until she gave them form.

This tale took place in a haunted studio apartment that was predisposed towards its tenants being artistic. There were four main ‘living’ characters: two young men and two young women, all friends and all looking for a studio space in which to pursue their individual passions — dance, writing, painting and music.

Penelope admired all the arts and she loved writing stories about young people, as through them she could still experience the joy, passion, frustration and heartbreak of youth. Penelope was a young woman on the inside, not at all weary of living, despite how her physical form begged to differ. Still, via her characters she could continue to explore all those endeavours that she’d not quite got around to pursuing due to her dedication to her writing life.

She hadn’t decided which of her characters did what yet, but she did know one of the young men was the writer in the group. Individually, her characters could not afford to hire their own studio on a full-time basis, but they’d realised that if they pooled their resources they could have a studio for the equivalent of one week a month.

‘Ms Whitman?’

Penelope, disturbed from her musing, opened her eyes to find the fuzzy outline of a nurse standing over her. She reached across to the bedside table for her glasses and, with them on her nose, she realised that she’d never seen this nurse before. He was tall and lanky, but rather easy on the eye. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Peter Lemond, Ms Whitman. I’m the new night nurse and I’m here to give you —’

‘I know why you are here.’ Penelope pulled back her blanket to expose her needle-marked legs.

As she didn’t get around much any more, she had blood-thinners injected at least once a day; twice if she didn’t get out for a walk. The royalties from her tales in print and on screen kept her in the tranquil, comfortable surrounds of the best aged-care home the city had to offer. The staff were both competent and considerate, she’d made sure of that before she’d moved herself in — she’d be damned if she was going to end up being mistreated by the very people she paid to take care of her!

Peter moved into position beside her as he unpackaged the syringe. ‘This won’t take a sec —’

‘Please don’t talk . . . you’ll disturb my train of thought,’ Penelope requested politely, closing her eyes to endure the stabbing and recapture her last vision.

‘I was told you are a famous author; are you working on a story?’

Perhaps he ignored her request in the hope of distracting her from the pending jab in the leg.

‘Trying.’

‘Is the story for publication?’

‘Perhaps in the next life.’ Penelope could not regain focus and lost her patience. ‘Could we please just get this over with?’

‘I’m done,’ Peter announced with good cheer.

‘What?’ Penelope was rather surprised and opened her eyes — she hadn’t felt a thing! ‘You’re very good.’ She pulled the blanket back over herself.

The young, dark-haired nurse shrugged off the praise. ‘So why bother creating a story you never intend to publish?’

Penelope chuckled. ‘You’re obviously not a writer.’

‘What makes you so certain?’ The young man appeared a little insulted.

Penelope was surprised to note that he might have aspirations, but considering the question he’d just asked she felt he had no real passion and would never realise his dream.

‘A writer doesn’t write to be published,’ Penelope stated indignantly. ‘A true writer writes because if they did not write, they would go mad! I’ve only ever created tales for my own enjoyment and although I’ve aged beyond penning my stories for publication, the flow of inspiration has never stopped, nor would I wish it to.’

‘Why not get someone —’

Penelope held up a hand to stop the questions, which she was forced to answer every time a new nurse was assigned to her. ‘Please, I’ve been through this before and have no desire to keep explaining myself. You just do your nurse thing and I’ll do my story thing and never the twain shall meet.’

‘Actually, Ms Whitman, I have an idea for a manuscript,’ Peter ventured despite her suggestion.

Penelope chuckled under her breath and shook her head. ‘I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that,’ she explained, dryly. ‘I’ll bet you’ve never read a word I’ve written?’

Peter became uncomfortable. ‘Well, no, I haven’t, but —’

‘Then how do you know you want advice from me?’ Penelope scoffed.

‘Point taken.’ Peter appeared very put in his place. ‘I’ll go and fetch your dinner then.’ He backed up a few paces and left quietly.

Even with her glasses, Penelope had not been able to see the young man’s disappointed expression, but she’d heard it in his voice. She’d been a keen mentor once but now she was just a grumpy, cynical old woman, sick of young people wanting to pick her brain in their pursuit of quick celebrity and fortune. A word of recommendation from her mouth could produce a bestseller and every would-be knew it. Surely she’d done enough for her craft over the years? Now it was time to be selfish, as she had been when she was a young girl, before anyone had ever discovered that her imagination was an amazing place.

For the next few nights Peter did not allow their conversation to veer towards the subject of writing. The nurse performed his duties quietly and considerately — just the way she liked it.

All the same, Penelope wasn’t getting any respite from the story in her head — every waking hour, and even in her sleep, the same scenes kept replaying. That was the trouble with not writing a story down, it was easy to lose focus or forget vital details. Thus she kept going back to the beginning and seemed destined to remain forever trapped there. Of late, she’d been more tired than usual and more prone to headaches. This bloody story was wearing her down, but she was not about to mention this to her medical staff for fear she’d get moved to the psych ward.

As Peter finished checking her vital signs, she watched as he once again painlessly administered her shot.

‘Why is it that when you give me a needle I don’t feel it?’ Penelope was rather in awe of his talent.

‘We have an oversupply of long needles, so we are supposed to use them up.’ Peter leaned closer to whisper his secret. ‘But I always use the short ones.’

‘Ahhh . . .’ Penelope drawled, enlightened.

‘But you didn’t learn that from me,’ he added and winked, and for a brief moment Penelope was charmed. ‘I’ve read your first trilogy,’ Peter finally ventured.

‘Oh really.’ Penelope was instantly irked that he’d bothered to overcome her protest to his last attempt to ask her for advice.

‘I didn’t realise your knowledge of the spiritual, occult and supernatural world was so extensive; it’s very akin to my own interests,’ he finished, politely.

‘You can’t have been getting much writing done if you were reading me,’ Penelope said. ‘Are you a reader or a writer, Peter?’

Peter appeared rather thrown by her comeback. ‘I am both.’

‘I never read anyone else,’ the old author scoffed. ‘I never asked for anyone’s advice and, just for the record, I never did a writing course either! You’re either a storyteller or you’re not.’ She stopped short of asking the nurse if he had a story to tell, for fear he’d start spouting a synopsis at her.

Peter placed his rubbish in the bin, and looked back to the author, appearing rather determined.

‘She spoke to me of mystery,

of far-off lands and adventure.

In my darkest hours, she was there,

to soothe my soul with cheerful banter.

But I was not living in the real world,

a life with her would have led to ruin,

so I spurned her loyal attentions

and quit shooting for the moon.

I blocked her attempts to make contact,

I was young, and I was cruel.

The precious gift of her devotion,

wasted on a fool.

Bound now to society’s grind,

my psyche screams to be set free.

My repentant heart seeks my first true love

in the hope she still waits for me.’

Penelope was rather delighted by his impromptu recitation. ‘That’s rather romantically tragic, who wrote that?’

‘I did,’ Peter informed her. ‘I called it, The Storyteller’s Muse.’

Upon discovering that his poem was in fact about a lost muse and not a lost lover, Penelope was quietly impressed, for she could relate to the sentiment and felt it quite insightful. ‘Then it’s even more tragic.’

‘Thank you, I think?’ Peter accepted the praise graciously. ‘For the record . . . I thought your stories were wonderful.’ He turned on his heel to depart.

‘Even for an old broad?’ Penelope still loved to hear her praises sung — her ego was in fine shape — and Peter turned back to indulge her further.

‘Stories that talk to the soul don’t date, Ms Whitman. You have an enviable talent. I’ll be back to check on you again presently; your blood pressure is a little high for my liking, but we’ll give the shot a few moments to take effect and then see where we are.’ He left, wearing the same smile he’d entered with.

‘Enviable . . . even at my age,’ Penelope chuckled to herself, and then held her head as a twinge of pain warned of a pending headache. She closed her eyes to rest them.

Her thoughts were immediately drawn to the story, and Penelope wondered after the name of the young male writer in her tale, which had eluded her all week; it was easy to imagine the young male nurse in the role. I think I shall call him Peter. Finally she had a clear picture of her main character as he walked through the door to inspect the empty studio warehouse and the clarity of the vision made her smile and shudder at once.

It was painful to consider trusting someone else with her story after what had happened last time around, but it didn’t seem right to hold that against Peter, who seemed a nice young fellow. Perhaps she should cut him, and herself, a break and offer Peter the chance to see her writing process in action? The notion sat well with Penelope, and her muse seemed to be appeased also as for the first time in five years her story vision ceased its relentless replay and she fell into a dreamless slumber.

When Peter returned to check Ms Whitman’s vital signs, she appeared to be fast asleep. Or perhaps she was formulating her never-to-be-published story, and so he went about his duty quietly.

What he wouldn’t give to have plot lines and publishing deals to burn! Still, he couldn’t blame her, for, having read up on Ms Whitman’s illustrious writing career, he had come to understand her reservations.

Penelope Whitman’s last book had been the first work of her entire career to be co-authored, and with a previously unknown writer — who just so happened to have been Ms Whitman’s former nurse, who had volunteered to aid the ageing author to transcribe her tale from audio to page. The claimant had threatened to take Penelope to court if she did not acknowledge her creative contribution with a co-author credit. Ms Whitman’s defence lawyers challenged this claim, stating that even though the transcriber may have made some suggestions to embellish the story and had rearranged a few words, that was editing, not writing, and it was still Penelope’s story. However, not wishing to have her name dragged through the mud at this last stage of her career, Penelope had agreed to the credit and awarded the claimant half the royalties from the book.

Neither writer had published a word since.

Was it any wonder that Ms Whitman refused to discuss her tales with anyone these days? It also explained why she was so negative about the intentions and aspirations of other would-be writers, and why she might be hesitant to share her great knowledge of the writing process and industry with him. He felt he’d really blown his chances, bringing up the topic of writing before Ms Whitman had really had a chance to get to know him. But life had thrown him too few opportunities to fulfil his dream to waste this one. He wanted so desperately to be mentored through the writing process. He had so many ideas and no clue how to formulate them into something that was interesting to read — let alone spellbinding, as Penelope Whitman’s books were.

‘If you wanted to be a writer, Peter, why did you become a nurse?’ she asked quietly, as if she was just talking in her sleep.

‘I became a nurse to appease my father. He actually wanted me to be a doctor, but I didn’t have the passion. For me it was only ever meant to be something to fall back on, but with all the study my writing aspirations got shelved and forgotten . . . until I met you,’ Peter replied as honestly as he could. ‘I imagined that you might have been my destiny coming around to remind me of what I was once really passionate about . . . and after reading your books, which are all about creating your own reality, I felt even more convinced of it. But I did a little research into the debacle your last book caused you and I cannot imagine you are very keen to —’

‘Are you writing something at present?’ Penelope spoke over him, seeming impatient, or perhaps wanting to avoid the topic.

‘Just bits and pieces, really.’ Peter wished he had something more impressive to say. ‘I have all these ideas but —’

‘That would be a no then,’ Penelope stated, having heard it all before. ‘Good,’ she continued, and Peter was perplexed. ‘I find it incredibly difficult to work on more than one tale at once.’

Peter felt his frown deepen; what was she talking about? ‘But I don’t even have one —’

‘I do,’ she cut in again, and grinned. ‘And I need someone to help me put it down on paper or I shall go nuts! If I’m not already,’ she chuckled to herself.

Peter was holding his breath — he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Are you asking me to help you?’

‘Why yes I am, Peter,’ she announced, sounding almost playful. ‘And I don’t even care if you do steal it; I just want to get it out!’

Peter was flabbergasted. ‘I would never steal from you, Ms Whitman, but I am very honoured that you would consider me.’

‘That’s what the last one said, but what choice do I have?’ The old woman shrugged.

He knew she didn’t mean to be insulting, she was just bitter about the last book.

‘This story needs to come out. But without putting pen to paper, the characters don’t get their say in the outcome. That would be like a director shooting an entire film without ever consulting the actors. Or visiting an exotic location without seeking the advice of the locals in regard to current events and the best places to find what you are looking for. A story is an adventure that has to play out on the page, I find.’

Peter was mesmerised by every word she said, it had been an age since he’d talked to anyone about writing and it was incredibly exciting.

‘So, what do you say?’ Penelope posed. ‘I’ll pay you for your services, a hundred dollars an hour. You’ll have to sign a contract to waive all rights to my story, of course . . . how does that sound?’

The excitement inside him burst and surfaced with a laugh. ‘Are you kidding me? That sounds . . . unbelievable! I’d be honoured to assist.’

‘Won’t you mind coming in on your days off?’ she queried.

‘I really don’t have anything better to do,’ Peter assured her. Outside of his work, he didn’t have anything; no family, no girlfriend — a few friends who he saw rarely, as they had lives.

‘How is your shorthand?’ she asked warily.

‘Not real good . . . but I am a fast typist,’ he added with more enthusiasm.

‘Well, maybe once we get over the initial set-up I can use a Dictaphone and you can commit the tale to computer at your leisure,’ Penelope suggested, as this way she could record her tale during her fast-diminishing waking hours.

‘I could set up an app on your computer to record —’

‘I don’t have a computer,’ she said indignantly. ‘I’m too damn old to be fiddling around with gadgets that have screens I can’t see anyway!’

‘That’s fine . . . a Dictaphone is no problem.’ Peter suppressed his enthusiasm to pacify her, even as he wondered if he’d be able to find a Dictaphone for her to use. Her attitude to computers made him wonder if she even knew that there was such a thing as social media; most authors considered it to be a vital tool in promoting their work these days.

This writing project would give him something to do in the wee hours at work when things got awfully slow and boring.

‘Thursday is my next day off, or rather Wednesday night, so I’ll be alert Thursday morning.’ He was raring to go already.

‘Then Thursday we begin,’ Penelope announced to finalise their arrangement. ‘I’ll have the contract for you to sign and the first chapter plotted and ready to go by then.’

THE SET-UP

On Thursday morning Gabrielle Valdez, Penelope’s day nurse, was more than a little surprised to see Peter in at work on his morning off. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I have an appointment with Ms Whitman this morning,’ Peter said cheerily.

‘Oh no . . . not again.’ Gabrielle spied the laptop under his arm and came out from behind the desk to stand in his path. ‘Don’t you dare take advantage of that dear, sweet, old lady’s talents! She’s been through enough —’

‘I have no intention of taking advantage of her.’ Peter objected to being judged so harshly.

‘Well, you can’t go in there right now, Ms Whitman has guests.’

‘Guests?’ Had she forgotten about their arrangement? She was old, but far from senile.

Gabrielle’s beeper went off and she immediately went to see what Ms Whitman wanted. ‘Wait here.’ The fiery young nurse cautioned him, pointing towards the waiting room.

‘Is Peter here yet?’ he overheard Penelope ask Gabrielle, who responded so quietly Peter couldn’t hear her.

‘Well . . . send him in.’ Penelope sounded annoyed by the delay. ‘All this is for his benefit.’

All what? he wondered, but waited for his cue before investigating.

Gabrielle returned, wearing a suspicious expression as she informed him, ‘Ms Whitman will see you now.’

‘Thank —’ Peter began but Gabrielle returned to her station having done her duty. She’d always been fairly nice to him in passing, and he’d even contemplated asking her out a few times. He was now rather glad he had not as he found this side of her very unattractive.

Peter regained his cheery mood before entering the room and then was winded upon sighting Penelope’s literary agent, Fabrizia Zenton. He recognised her immediately as she was widely known as the most sought-after agent in the business. She was Italian sass at its most elegant and had a serene, almost regal, air about her. She had a swathe of dark burgundy-black ringlets that fell about the neck of her bright yellow wool overcoat; her bright red lipstick and dark eyes added to her vivacious appearance.

There was also another official-looking businessman present. Penelope introduced her lawyer, Martyn Webster, who had drafted a contract for Peter to sign, and then introduced him to Fabrizia.

As Fabrizia stepped forward to shake his hand, Peter’s mind was devoid of a single witty or memorable thing to say. ‘Very nice to meet you.’ Way to go, Lemond, that’s really going to make an impression.

‘The pleasure is mine, Mr Lemond. Penelope tells me you are her new protégé,’ Ms Zenton commented, kindly.

Peter looked to Penelope, honoured, and a little surprised that she would think of him as such when they had yet to set pen to paper on anything. The old woman merely winked at him and encouraged him to pay attention to the very important woman in front of him. ‘Yes, I am,’ he replied as surely as he was able, but his lack of self-confidence as a writer prevented him from truly pulling it off.

‘I am very excited that Penelope has decided to write another book,’ Fabrizia told him, ‘and the publishers will go into a bidding frenzy when they find out! So I must thank you, Mr Lemond, for being her muse.’

Peter certainly didn’t think he deserved that credit.

‘But, as the last thing we want is a repeat of the claimant dramas that arose around my client’s previous book,’ Ms Zenton accepted the contract from their lawyer and held it out towards Peter, ‘we need your signature on this waiver agreement —’

‘I’d be happy to —’ Peter began, but Ms Zenton held up a finger to imply she was not finished.

‘Not only do you waive all rights to the creative content of this book, but should Penelope, heaven forbid, not live to finish the work, all rights to the manuscript revert to me, as do all copies etc, etc.’

‘I fully understand that I’m being hired to transcribe,’ Peter stated soberly. ‘If I contribute any ideas, I donate them to the story as part of my paid work. If I wish to claim ownership of my ideas, then I should keep them to myself and write my own book.’

‘Bravo!’ Penelope quite agreed.

‘This is Ms Whitman’s work,’ Peter warranted. ‘And I am more than happy to sign anything to that effect.’

‘Marvellous.’ Fabrizia smiled and led him to a seat at the coffee table where they sat down and she handed Peter her gold pen.

As soon as the formalities were over, Ms Zenton and the lawyer took their leave. In their wake Peter appeared like he’d been hit by a tornado, but he was high on the adrenaline of the experience.

‘You could have warned me.’ Peter referred Penelope to his casual attire and general dishevelled appearance. ‘I would have made more of an effort.’

‘You should make more of an effort anyway,’ Penelope lectured. ‘Then you might have something better to do than appease an old woman’s desires.’ She chuckled at her own wit; she was in such fine spirits today. It was refreshing to have something exciting happening, something to bother waking up for — a means to satisfy her lust for a good story.

Peter smiled at her dig. ‘I assure you, Ms Whitman, the current top model couldn’t coerce me from your room this morning.’

Penelope felt her heart do a little flutter when she realised he was flirting with her. ‘Well, let’s get to it, then.’ She invited him to set up his laptop on the desk she’d had brought in and positioned to one side of her bed.

It only took Peter a few minutes to prepare, and with a blank page on the screen before him he turned to Penelope to ask, ‘So, does this book have a title?’

‘Yes. 4 Kismet Way,’ she divulged.

‘Oh, I like that.’ Peter began punching keys.

‘The prologue is entitled, “The Apartment”.’ Penelope allowed a moment for Peter to tap that out.

When he had, the storyteller closed her eyes, brought to mind the interior of the warehouse apartment that was at the heart of this story, and it spoke to her. ‘It was not desirable to be vacant,’ she conveyed. ‘This place was morbid without a creative living being to inspire.’

Peter typed away madly, but as he came to the end of the sentence he asked, ‘Whose point of view is this?’

Penelope frowned, annoyed to have her train of thought interrupted. ‘You’ll figure it out. Now don’t interrupt, you can ask questions after it is all typed up, fair enough?’

Peter nodded.

‘So, where was I?’ she asked.

Peter read from the screen, ‘Um . . . this place was morbid without a life force to inspire.’

‘Life force,’ Penelope noted he’d changed her wording. ‘I like that, but let’s make it creative life force.’

‘Done,’ Peter acknowledged her request and did not interrupt again.

None of the potential tenants that the real estate agent had shown through the sparsely furnished apartment recently appeared attractive prospects. To suffer through another six-month lease with a high-flying, suit-wearing, executive type would be intolerable — better to just collapse the ceiling and put an end to the misery!

The last tenant, an anal and prudish investment banker, had covered all the original painted works and furniture with dust sheets and had only ever spent her sleeping hours here. A string of mishaps in the apartment had seen the banker break her lease early, and her departure was mutually appreciated.

The key turned in the lock and the real estate agent popped his head inside the door. After quickly scoping out the place, he gingerly entered. ‘Come in,’ he invited a young man.

‘Wow,’ was the prospective tenant’s initial reaction. ‘It’s even bigger than I thought! And so quiet.’ The young fellow appeared to resonate with the space.

The agent forced a smile — the apartment was not his favourite, having caused him no end of frustration over the years. ‘Feel free to look about.’ He remained by the door, his eyes scanning the high ceilings. ‘This top floor of the warehouse was converted into a residence to service the owner mid-last-century.’

The prospective tenant looked up, evidently wondering about the agent’s concern, but his curiosity was aroused by something else. ‘Why is all the artwork covered?’

‘The tenant before you was a bit of a neat freak,’ the agent explained, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe the beads of sweat that were forming on his brow. ‘I’ve removed all the covers she had on the furniture, but I didn’t get around to exposing the artwork again. Truth be known, it is not to everyone’s taste.’

‘Is that right? May I?’ The young man motioned to the covered painting hanging above the large sandstone fireplace.

‘By all means,’ the agent granted, staying right where he was, back to the door.

As the sheet billowed to the floor exposing the work, it seemed as if the room was suddenly filled with light. The painting depicted lovers, one on top of the other. The figures were both very beautiful and it was hard to discern which was male or female, or if indeed it was two men, or two women; the sexual details of their bodies were obscured just enough to leave the viewer wondering.

As the young man gazed up at the picture he decided, ‘I could work here.’

‘What line of work are you in?’ the agent queried politely.

‘I’m a writer . . . aspiring,’ he thought to add. The agent did not appear at all impressed with the prospect of getting his rent out of a starving artist. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I work a desk job as well. But I need a studio to write in a few days a fortnight, which is why I answered your ad. I also happen to know a couple of other artists who need a studio space on a part-time basis and I think this would suit us right down to the ground.’

A group of artists — that was the best news this century!

‘It’s the apartment’s point of view,’ Peter answered his own query, after their session was interrupted by lunch.

‘Bingo.’ Penelope smiled, raising her brows a few times to emphasise the mystery.

‘Is it haunted?’ Peter ventured a guess as to why the unusual prologue was integral to the story.

Penelope shrugged. ‘Possessed might be closer to the mark, but we’ll see what eventuates, shall we? I have an idea, but the story may prove me wrong . . . it often does.’

‘You talk as if the story were your co-writer.’ Peter found this very inspiring. ‘I’ve never thought to approach my tale like a colleague . . . to me, writing has always felt more like my nemesis.’

‘That’s because you’ve been ignoring your muse, putting it off,’ Penelope replied rather passionately. ‘Put your muse off long enough and before you know it, you’ll find someone else has written the very book you had in mind.’

‘I have actually had that happen a few times.’ Peter nodded.

‘A muse is like a lover that, left unfulfilled, will pack up its creative assets and move on to the next promising candidate.’ Penelope pulled a small portion off her sandwich and ate it as she nodded in agreement with herself. ‘The muses like me because I make myself free to indulge them . . . as you are doing now,’ she added in encouragement. ‘For every minute you spend writing this tale, pouring your energy into creative endeavour, the more attractive to the muses you will become and soon they will give you more than just ideas.’ She raised both brows and nodded in promise.

Peter, spellbound, snapped out of his dreamy state and brought his mind back to the matter at hand.

‘So we’ve met our hero, but we don’t know his name yet?’ Peter figured that would come up fairly shortly. ‘So what is the would-be writer’s name?’

Penelope saw the aspiring writer as Peter, but it was probably better that Peter didn’t know that. ‘Nathaniel.’ The name just popped right into her head, and looking at Peter, it rather suited him too, with his dark eyes and hair, and pale complexion. ‘Nathaniel Fitzroy.’

‘Oooh, strong name.’ Peter voiced his approval as he made scribbled notes on a pad. ‘And where does the tale take place?’

‘In the apartment.’ Penelope thought that screamingly obvious. ‘Oh, and in the coffee house, down the road.’

‘But what town?’ Peter tried to clarify himself.

‘That hasn’t been mentioned, so I guess it’s not important yet.’ She shrugged. ‘I don’t like to get bogged down in details . . . it spoils the flow. We want to stick with the action, and if the readers need a break from the excitement they’ll just have to put the book down . . . the trick is to make that impossible.’ Penelope gave a yawn; having had something to eat she suddenly couldn’t keep her eyes open. ‘I’m sorry, Peter, but it seems that is all I have in me today. I have more, but I —’

‘That’s perfectly fine,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll read over the beginning and check for typos.’

He was being polite, for Penelope could see he was still raring to go and she wished she still had his stamina. ‘When I awake I will record more and you can pick it up at your convenience,’ she suggested, her words a little muffled as sleep took her over.

‘I eagerly await the next instalment,’ he advised softly, and that was the last thing Penelope heard.

CHARACTERS

Nathaniel was the last one of the group to arrive at the coffee shop.

After an early rehearsal in town, Monique had decided against going home to the suburbs and then travelling all the way back into the city. Hence she’d been drinking coffee for two hours, waiting to take a look at this studio space Nathaniel was raving about. Tyme had picked Julian up after his band rehearsal and had arrived right on time — for someone who never wore a watch, she was amazingly prompt.

The three of them were huddled in a corner, drinking warm beverages and gazing at the pouring rain beyond the window, when Nathaniel took a seat in their booth and startled them all from their contemplation.

‘You’re late.’ Monique whacked his shoulder for the scare.

‘I’m sorry but the traffic is dreadful,’ Nathaniel defended his tardiness, removing his wet coat and placing it on the seat beside him.

‘I managed.’ Tyme grinned in challenge.

‘But you’re in tune with the universe,’ Nathaniel teased. ‘And I am . . . obviously not. But, I swear to you, this place is going to solve all our creative dilemmas. No more complaining that you have nowhere big enough to rehearse,’ he told Monique. ‘No more clambering over your artworks to get to your front door.’ He smiled at Tyme. ‘There’s heaps of space to store your supplies and artworks . . . and your guitars and sound gear,’ he told Julian.

‘And no more trying to think over the sound of a young family in the house,’ Monique stated the benefit for Nathaniel.

‘That’s exactly right,’ he confirmed. ‘Jenna and the baby will be a whole lot happier without me grouching around telling them to be quiet whenever I’m home. Now I will have family time and work time. No more sacrificing one for the other and getting neither!’

‘I think Sofie would be happier if I just moved out, period!’ Julian retorted, running his fingers through his long blond fringe to sweep it out of his eyes.

‘Why are you still going out with her?’ Monique threw her hands up in one of her mini French rages.

She was really only part French, but she played it up as it got her noticed. Not that she really needed any gimmicks to be the centre of attention. Her thick mass of dark hair, dark brown eyes, large pouting lips and dancer’s physique made her very easy on the eye. She was passionate about dance and radiated her pending success through every fibre of her being. She was going to be a star — no doubt about it.

‘I’m still going out with Sofie because she keeps me on the straight and narrow, and she’s a damn good lay.’ Julian grinned in his classic James Dean fashion as he licked the edge of a rollie to seal it, ready to light up the second they hit the footpath, rain or not.

‘The only reason she doesn’t want you to spend your money on drugs is so she can spend it!’ Tyme shared Monique’s dislike of Julian’s current squeeze.

‘But if you knew what she spent it on, woo-hoo, you would not be complaining.’ His smile broadened, as the girls both rolled their eyes.

‘Pussy-whipped,’ Monique deduced, sounding disappointed in him.

‘So bad,’ Tyme agreed.

‘Well at least I’m getting laid,’ he defended.

‘There is that,’ Tyme sighed. She hadn’t had sex since the birth of her daughter; most men just didn’t seem to find a young, single mum very attractive and the men who did, Tyme didn’t want to know about. It wasn’t as if she wasn’t attractive, but she was a bit of a hippy who wore her blonde hair short and wore no make-up ever.

‘So not interested,’ Monique stressed, having just ended a short, fiery fling that had been way more trouble than it was worth.

‘I can’t say I’d mind.’ Nathaniel was deflated by the subject matter. ‘Jenna still hasn’t really recovered from having Amy. But my time is coming.’ He tried to sound positive, but was far from convincing.

‘She’ll get there.’ Tyme placed her hand over Nathaniel’s and smiled in encouragement. ‘She’s just exhausted.’

‘I know.’ He forced a smile. ‘Until then, I need some me time, so . . . let’s go and get ourselves some studio space, shall we?’

‘Right on, brother.’ Julian fist-bumped Nathaniel and they all rose to rug up and brave the elements.

Peter loved how well-rounded Penelope’s characters were. Already he felt he knew them and wanted in on their camaraderie.

Once upon a time he’d had friends like that — creative individuals who were all going to be famous and change the world. Yet one by one they’d all been absorbed into the social system, and had taken jobs they didn’t like to support themselves, their relationships and families. Of course, at the time, they probably hadn’t realised they were ditching their art to become working-class clones, for their intentions always seemed to be to return to creative pursuits. Still, as the years passed, those intentions appeared to Peter to have ebbed to little more than long-forgotten, unrealistic, unachievable dreams.

‘Many people surely have the same sad tale to tell,’ Peter informed Penelope during her evening blood-thinner jab. ‘I think it is incredibly clever that you are tapping into that deep-seated fantasy that lays buried in every dormant artist.’

‘That is completely unintentional on my part.’ Penelope waved away the flattery. ‘But my muses always seem to know what they are doing and they make me look clever. I have read theses written on my books that outline my genius . . . I don’t understand half of what they say I did, but apparently I’m quite brilliant!’

Peter covered Penelope’s leg and chuckled at her claim. ‘So am I to assume that by muses, you mean your characters?’

‘Yes, my characters.’ She did not seem satisfied with that definition, however. ‘But if my characters were souls, they also seem to have an oversoul who directs the entire affair . . . asks me the right questions at the right time, sends in characters on cue and brings my attention to clues to follow, that sort of thing.’

‘Well then, say your muse sends in a character,’ Peter suggested curiously. ‘How do you know so much about them? How do you just create a well-rounded character, with history? Do you just make it up? Research someone like them? Base them on someone you know —?’

‘All of the above, and none,’ she replied to confuse the issue.

Peter frowned, feeling she was teasing him.

‘Consider it this way,’ she suggested. ‘In the world of your story, you, as the writer, are a super psychic.’

‘Okay.’ Peter could see where she might be going with this.

‘So when your muse sends in a character, they may look like someone you’ve known, someone famous, or someone you know not at all. Whatever the case, you observe the character. How they dress will tell you a lot about who they are and where they come from. What you cannot derive from observation you just ask the character and they will tell you. If they won’t tell you, then they are hiding something, which will no doubt come to light later on in the story. But then being a psychic inside your own tale, you do get gut feelings, or wee visions, about your characters; you pick up on their thoughts and get inside their heads, whereas the other characters in the story cannot.’

‘Unless, of course, I’m writing a book about a bunch of psychics,’ Peter jested, knowing Penelope had done exactly that in the past.

‘Well, that’s when things really get confusing. One super psychic in a story is enough.’

‘And when you converse with your characters, do you do that . . . out loud?’ Peter felt a little odd suggesting such a thing.

‘When I am alone, sure,’ she encouraged. ‘But otherwise . . . people tend to think you are a little nuts.’

Peter suspected Penelope was just playing him for sport now. ‘I think I’d feel a little silly.’

‘Did you never have an imaginary friend?’

‘Well, yes,’ he was shy to admit.

‘So feel silly!’ she suggested in all seriousness. ‘And when you get tired of wasting time being self-conscious about it, focus on being alone with your characters. Ask them what you want to know, and if they don’t tell you, extract it from them telepathically! You are the storyteller, you have the power — and if your characters won’t play ball, you can kill them off in the next scene, or recast them altogether!’

‘Ha!’ Peter was delighted by her premise. Penelope viewed the writing process from angles he’d never before considered, and her practices were certainly more unorthodox than those his English studies had cultivated. ‘But what if I prove to be a crap psychic and I fire a whole bunch of talented characters?’

‘Well, the crabby, old me would say, “then you’re not a writer”. But as your mentor,’ she added more fondly, ‘I will say instead, just trust the process. For at the root of all great art there lays a giant leap of faith, often many such leaps. Who cares if you feel silly? Who cares if you fail?’

‘I care,’ Peter stated indignantly.

‘And that is why, up to this point, you have not succeeded,’ Penelope advised kindly. ‘Art for art’s sake is the only reason a master artist creates. Not for the fame talent might bring, or the money, or the situation it might get you out of. It is the all-consuming, time-distorting joy of being lost in creation that drives us, for there is no greater feeling or reward.’

‘God I want to feel that.’ Peter was marvelling at her words. ‘I touch that place when working on your novel. But to be able to enter that place myself, without you having to lead me there by the hand, that would be the ultimate for me.’

‘All you have to do is let go of the need for the approval of others. No one who ever achieved greatness asked for permission. Mark my words, Peter; utter abandon will free your spirit and lead you down the path of your own creative genius.’

The old writer’s claims filled his chest with fire, as he realised he had nothing to lose by acting on her advice. ‘I know in my gut that you are absolutely right.’

‘Of course. I’m always right. Although writers do have the same brain patterns as the clinically insane, you do know that?’

Peter looked to her, alarmed — was this her way of saying that he could follow her advice at his own risk?

‘It’s true!’ she teased. ‘But I also know, from personal experience, that if you care what other people think of your art, you inhibit the whole creative process.’

‘You have to dance like no one is watching.’ Peter nodded, enlightened.

‘Nobody is watching.’ Penelope gave a cynical laugh. ‘They’re all staring at their silly phones!’

Peter laughed at her play on words. ‘Yes, “smart phone” is something of an ironic name for them. You certainly do have a cynical streak, Ms Whitman.’

As do you, Mr Lemond . . . only my cynical streak does not give me writer’s block.’

Penelope closed her eyes, which was her polite way of saying, You’ve picked my brain enough, now you may leave.

‘Point taken.’ Peter really didn’t want to end this discussion, but he had more story to transcribe and was equally eager to get back to work on that.

At the apartment, all four artists were wandering about with huge smiles on their faces. The space was sparsely furnished: a couple of lounges, a coffee table, breakfast table, a desk and chair.

‘Four Kismet Way . . .’ Tyme found the address amusing. ‘Sounds like a mystery, Nat?’

Nathaniel grinned at the suggestion.

‘And there are four of us,’ Julian chimed in.

‘You did go to school.’ Tyme glanced round to Julian and served him a teasing grin.

Julian ignored her dig. ‘I was implying that Nat might write about all of us when we are rich and famous, and that would be a great title.’

‘I shall bear that in mind,’ Nathaniel assured Julian.

‘Even with all of Tyme’s art and all of Julian’s gear, there would still be more space in here than I could ever need.’ Monique was very excited and performed a long string of twirls across the room — which was her way of measuring the area.

‘The bedroom and bathroom are upstairs, out of the way.’ Nathaniel motioned to the iron stairs at the far end of the kitchen area that spiralled up to an open landing where there were two doors.

The kitchen itself ran the length of the wall by the entrance door and was completely open to the huge, empty space downstairs. Large windows featured around the other three walls. It had a timber floor and an exposed iron support-beam ceiling that was over two storeys high.

‘We should grab this.’ Julian was gazing down at the quiet back streets of the industrial area. ‘There will be no one around here at night to complain about how loud my music is.’

‘I know.’ Nathaniel was very excited. ‘At night it will be so quiet around here you could hear a pin drop.’

‘Unless I’m here.’ Julian raised his brows.

The apartment was not on street level because there was a double-storey car park beneath — and this also meant the security measures of the entire building were rather good.

‘I wonder why this apartment wasn’t torn down when they converted the rest of it into parking?’ Monique danced back over to join the group.

‘Good for us that it wasn’t.’ Nathaniel didn’t care why.

‘I’d feel safe here.’ Tyme chimed in with her approval, and everyone gave a cheer of excitement. ‘So what’s the deal? How are we going to work this?’

They had discussed doing it, but had yet to really nut out the details.

‘Well,’ Nathaniel piped up as this had been his brainchild. ‘We could either have it for one week a month each —’

Everybody groaned and screwed up their noses — that was obviously going to be hard to schedule around their other commitments.

‘— Or,’ Nathaniel spoke up over the pending protests, ‘we could each take it for half a week a fortnight and have one stint of three days and one stint of four per month.’

Everybody was starting to nod now, and Nathaniel pulled out a piece of paper to get to work on a roster.

Once that was sorted to suit, Tyme piped up to say, ‘But there will have to be rules like . . . you have to vacate by five o’clock on your last rostered day,’ she suggested, and everyone agreed.

‘You must leave the house tidy for the next person.’ Monique was looking at Julian.

‘I promise I won’t make a mess.’ Julian conceded that he was a bit of a slob at times.

‘And no bringing people back here,’ Tyme added. ‘I can’t leave my works here if there is a risk they might be damaged.’

They were all looking at Julian again, and he began to take offence. ‘And what if I want to rehearse with someone? Or what if Monique is dancing a duet? Or Nathaniel wants to have a meeting with an editor? Or you want to have a showing, for that matter?’

Tyme didn’t want to have to go through this with her dear friend, but she knew what he, or rather his band, were like. ‘Yes, but our business associates are not the types to get pissed and start doing things that later they cannot account for.’

‘Look, I promise I shall make my associates act responsibly.’ The musician raised both brows in the hope his friends would stop giving him a hard time. ‘We all know this is a good idea . . . so let’s go do this.’ He slapped a hand into his palm to get them motivated and off the subject of what a high-risk tenant he was.

‘I’m in,’ Nathaniel concurred and both the girls smiled and nodded also.

‘Excellent,’ Julian agreed, thinking he was very clever. ‘I get the first night here.’

‘Actually . . .’ Tyme reviewed their arrangement. ‘If you look at the dates on the monthly roster, you’re due to vacate by five o’clock.’

‘Aw, what?’ Julian had another look.

It was Nathaniel who would have the first four days of studio time.

‘How’s it all going?’

Peter was startled from his proofreading, and when he looked up to find Gabrielle Valdez standing by his station he shot out of his seat, alarmed. ‘Is it that time already?’

‘No, no.’ She motioned with her hand for him to calm. ‘I’m a bit early.’

‘Phew.’ He dropped back into his chair and ran both hands through his hair in an attempt to bring himself back to reality — what he wouldn’t give for a fantastic studio space to create in, even if it was haunted!

‘So?’ Gabrielle raised her brows, eager to have her question answered. ‘Is the story as intriguing as Ms Whitman is boasting?’

Peter was surprised to find Nurse Valdez being friendly as she’d been practically ignoring him for days. ‘Well, Ms Whitman is a bit ahead of me in the storyline . . . but the lady certainly knows how to tap into other people’s fantasies,’ he admitted, and then had to query Nurse Valdez’s smile. ‘I thought you didn’t like me any more?’

‘If I liked you in the first place,’ Gabrielle teased. ‘You’ve just made Ms Whitman so happy and motivated, that I have to give you some credit. Jeez, she’s even been friendly.’ She rolled her eyes in a kooky fashion that Peter found rather disarming, and he smiled. ‘As a reward, how about I make you a coffee while you do your rounds?’

‘I’d really appreciate that, thanks.’ Peter had drunk way too many cups of coffee already, but he didn’t want to risk getting Nurse Valdez offside again.

‘Can I read some, while you’re away?’ She pointed to his laptop screen and Peter closed it up.

‘I would have to ask Ms Whitman’s permission.’ Peter didn’t want to refuse her, but the truth was he was afraid of being judged — the story was brilliant, it was his transcription he was worried about. ‘I signed a contract, you understand.’ He rattled off the first good excuse he felt might hold water.

‘I understand.’ Gabrielle accepted his stance. ‘Still, I have been Ms Whitman’s nurse for over five years, I’m sure she won’t mind. But I’ll ask,’ she was quick to add. ‘I didn’t mean to put you in an awkward position.’

‘You didn’t.’ Peter made a move to get his rounds done so that he could get home and work on the book some more — he was obsessed and it felt fantastic!

When he returned to the desk, he found his coffee . . . and Gabrielle with his laptop open reading the manuscript. ‘Nurse Valdez —’ Peter was about to launch into a lecture about respecting people’s wishes and personal property, when Gabrielle looked to him with excitement in her eyes.

‘It’s wonderful,’ she gasped as she looked back to the screen. ‘Is the apartment haunted?’

‘That remains to be seen.’ Peter enjoyed teasing her in this instance.

‘Well, I love it so far,’ she said. ‘May I please be your reader?’

Peter didn’t feel he had the authority to commit to that arrangement.

‘You know how slow it can get in here.’ She opened wide those large dark eyes of hers, and looked up to beseech him.

Peter took a sip of his coffee before answering — it was good coffee for this place. ‘If Ms Whitman agrees,’ he said, and Gabrielle grinned broadly, knowing she would get her way.

DEVELOPMENT

Penelope was awake and deep in thought when Peter came in to bid her farewell for the day. Nurse Valdez entered with him and judging from the covert, encouraging looks they were serving each other, Penelope knew something was going on. ‘Are you two dating?’ Her assumption threw the two young nurses into a state of embarrassed amusement.

‘Us?’ Peter gasped.

‘No, no, no.’ Gabrielle waved her hands to the negative.

‘Then what is up with the two of you this morning?’ Penelope queried. The pair reminded her of a couple of kids who were avoiding admitting to some misdeed.

‘I have a confession to make,’ Gabrielle owned up. ‘While Peter was doing his rounds, I sneaked a peek at the story you’re writing.’

‘And what did you think?’ Penelope was eager to hear her opinion.

‘I loved it so much that I asked Peter if I could be your reader on this one, and he said it would be okay with him, provided you agree?’ Gabrielle finished up hopefully.

Penelope shot a glance across to Peter, who shrugged, as if to say ‘What was I to do?’

Penelope could tell Peter liked Nurse Valdez — she hadn’t spent all these years writing books without learning a thing or two about human character. She knew bringing Gabrielle on board would be a good move, for the project and for Peter, but he still seemed a little discomforted. ‘Could you give me a moment to discuss this with my colleague?’ Penelope asked Nurse Valdez, who appeared a little stunned to be denied an immediate answer.

‘Yes, of course.’ She served them both an uncertain smile and left the room.

‘I am so sorry about this —’ Peter began, but Penelope held up a hand to prevent his outpouring.

‘Nurse Valdez knows how to get what she wants.’ Penelope liked that about the girl.

‘Well, she sure wants in on this book,’ Peter empathised.

‘So you think it is the story that motivates her?’ Penelope knew different, but did Peter have a clue?

‘Well yes, the story, what else?’ He seemed bemused by the question.

No, Peter did not have a clue. Penelope chuckled and waved off a response.

‘What then?’ he quizzed with amused curiosity.

‘Would having Gabrielle as our proofreader be a pleasing scenario for you?’ Penelope got back to the heart of the matter.

‘Um,’ he hummed as he considered, scratching his head. ‘Well, if I don’t say yes, she’s going to know I was the one who objected.’ Peter made up an excuse to agree, to cover the fact that he wanted to agree.

It seemed there was a wee romance developing right under her nose — how exciting! ‘On the other hand, if we tell her yes,’ Penelope ventured, ‘then Gabrielle will know that you endorsed her participation, and that should put you in very good stead with her, don’t you think?’

Peter’s eyes narrowed, but he could not suppress his grin as he began to catch the old woman’s drift. ‘Are you trying to set me up, Ms Whitman?’

Peter was shaking his head to the negative, but his grin was constant. ‘If I wanted to —’

There was a knock on the door and Gabrielle stuck her head in the room. ‘Is this going to take much longer? I’m a really impatient person and I’m dying out here.’

‘Sorry, dearie.’ Penelope beckoned her to enter. ‘We got sidetracked on a subplot.’ She winked sideways at Peter, who grinned and rolled his eyes.

‘Well, did you decide?’ Gabrielle wondered, bursting to know if she had approval. And that was really what this entire scenario was about, Peter’s approval — Penelope knew this.

‘Yes, we did,’ Penelope advised. ‘And we would love for you to be our proofreader.’

‘Really?’ Gabrielle clapped her hands together, did a little happy dance and looked to Peter first. ‘Thank you so much.’

The smile Peter gave her in return confirmed Penelope’s theory of a brewing romance.

Gabrielle then looked back to Penelope. ‘And thank you, Ms Whitman, for trusting me.’

‘I trust you with my life, every day …’ She took up the girl’s hand and patted it ‘. . . and I trust you with my story just as well.’

‘I’ve been looking for something to really sink my teeth into.’ Gabrielle squeezed Penelope’s hand, excited.

‘We all are, dear,’ Penelope sympathised, and looked to Peter, who was grinning at her; no doubt seeing, for the first time, what a crafty old woman she was — but he didn’t know the half of it. ‘I might get you to help out with some of my Dictaphone work too, as I do most of that during the day when Peter is sleeping,’ Penelope looked back to Gabrielle, ‘I can pay you —’

‘You pay me already.’ Gabrielle was quick to wave off the money. ‘But I’ll be happy to help out in any way I can.’

Gabrielle had not shown the slightest interest in her last book — so why was this project different? There was only one answer. Peter. What Penelope found even more amusing was that she knew that a very sensual tale lay in store and so this editing team promised to be the most intriguing collaboration Penelope had ever had!

After three days alone to write, Nathaniel had got more work done on his novel than he had managed to accomplish in the last five years. He actually felt like a writer and his work was inspired as a result. Nathaniel had found his muse — it was extraordinary! There was a voice in his head dictating the flow of words, asking him the right questions at the right time and, with a little research, his plot had begun thickening nicely.

He’d just had a very late dinner and felt ready to take a seat and get cracking on his next chapter when he heard the apartment lift moving. Nathaniel knew that only the tenants of this apartment had keys to access this floor of the building so he figured one of his flatmates was dropping by.

‘This is very bloody inconvenient,’ he mumbled, even though after three days alone the idea of a little conversation with another human being was not entirely undesirable. He hoped it was Tyme dropping off some of her artworks, but he also knew she had more manners than to just arrive without calling first.

Nathaniel opened the front door and awaited the lift. ‘If this is Julian, in a drunken stupor, I’m just going to —’

The elevator door parted to reveal Monique, who had sunk to sit in the corner and couldn’t get up. ‘My saviour.’ She held her hands out towards him.

‘Monique?’ He was surprised to see her in such a sad state as she was usually so vigilant about her fitness and health regime.

‘Opening night was awesome, they loved us!’ She cheered herself as Nathaniel hoisted her off the floor and struggled to keep the lift door open at once.

‘That would explain your state,’ he mumbled.

‘There was so much expensive champagne,’ Monique emphasised, ‘and the waiter just kept topping up my glass.’

‘Well, you do have to perform tomorrow too, you realise?’

They staggered into the foyer and through into the apartment.

‘That’s why I’m here.’ Monique looked to him. ‘I just know I’m going to wake up late, and when I do, I’d rather be five minutes away. I won’t disturb you, I promise, just let me crash on the lounge . . . I’ll be out of your face early and —’

‘It’s fine,’ Nathaniel assured her. ‘You can take the bed upstairs; I’ve been crashing on the lounge anyway.’

Monique looked up at the spiralling iron staircase and was clearly worried. ‘I might need a little help with that.’

It was a struggle to get his friend up the stairs. She was being amorous, as Monique always was when inebriated, which wasn’t helping matters.

When he finally got her to the bed he let her drop, but Monique grabbed Nathaniel’s shirt and pulled him down on top of her.

‘Don’t do this, Mon,’ he whined, as the idea of a little sex with an ex was mighty appealing right now. He always seemed to become more aroused when his writing was going well, which today it was.

‘Come on, Nat.’ She kissed his neck. ‘You know how good I am at keeping secrets.’ She sucked his earlobe.

Nathaniel grabbed both her wandering hands and brought them together at her chest to hold her at bay. ‘But I am a terrible liar,’ he stated, ‘and I couldn’t do that to Jenna, not now . . . not ever.’

Monique relented. ‘Why did you have to go get married?’ she sulked. ‘You ruined a perfectly good love affair.’

‘Is that what it was?’ Nathaniel queried. ‘I thought we were having a relationship . . . and unfortunately all those other love affairs you were having put a bit of a downer on that.’ He crawled off her and got back to standing as Monique twisted into a fiercely seductive pose.

‘I hate to see you so unhappy.’ She laid her head upon the pillows and looked to him.

‘I’m not unhappy,’ he insisted. ‘Relationships go through their ups and downs; if you’d ever stuck with one long enough, you’d know that.’

‘Ouch.’ Monique pouted, pretending to be hurt. ‘In that case, I hate to see such a good man going to waste.’

‘Five minutes with my daughter is more meaningful to me than our entire romance,’ he stated, and he could see he’d really hurt her that time. ‘However, our friendship is rather dear to me, which is why I am now going to bid you goodnight.’ He headed for the door and switched the light off on the way out — she wouldn’t remember a thing in the morning.

‘Nathaniel,’ Monique called before he closed the door. ‘I love you.’

‘Back at you.’ His good mood returned. ‘Now be a good girl and pass out.’ He closed the door behind him and headed back to work.

Perfectly timed, Penelope considered as she switched off her Dictaphone and watched Nurse Valdez approach.

‘Finally, I got a lunch break!’ Gabrielle rolled her eyes. ‘You said you wanted me to help out with something?’

‘Yes, indeed.’ Penelope was eager to get started. ‘Pull up a chair.’

Gabrielle obliged and looked to the old woman, ready to be of service.

‘This is the thing . . .’ Penelope took a deep breath in preparation to hatch her little scheme.

The old woman explained to Gabrielle that the book was about to take a rather erotic turn and she feared that Peter might feel a little uncomfortable hearing the more intimate scenes being described in her old voice. ‘Would you mind lending your young, sexy voice to my more sensual material?’

Gabrielle was grinning broadly; shocked, delighted and honoured. ‘I would love to,’ she stated. ‘Do you have such a scene ready to go?’ Gabrielle was keen, as she’d enjoyed drama at school and had never been afraid to really get into character.

‘I do, as it happens.’ Penelope passed the Dictaphone to the nurse. ‘Do you know how this works?’

‘I showed you, remember?’ Gabrielle took possession of the recording device. ‘So which character is getting seduced?’

‘Monique,’ Penelope replied and Gabrielle was excited.

‘By whom?’

‘Let’s see, shall we?’

Peter was often surprised by the modern terms the old woman used in her tale and how raunchy her romance scenes were — more so in her other books than this one, so far, thank God! He gathered she kept abreast of the times watching television; despite her bad eyesight, Penelope’s hearing was still fine, when it suited her. That last scene with Monique and Nathaniel in the upstairs bedroom had started to get a little raunchy and Peter found himself praying that Ms Whitman didn’t launch into describing a full-on sex scene.

He hadn’t considered how the sensual aspects of the story might make him feel during transcribing. But as seduction was an inevitable part of any of Ms Whitman’s stories, Peter felt he was just going to have to get over it.

‘I know!’ He had a thought while making coffee, and when he returned to his computer Peter did a search for photographs of Penelope Whitman in her younger days — maybe if he could see her as a young woman the situation would not feel so odd? He found several photographs taken at the start of her career in the fifties, and she was a stunner! There was one photo in particular of her that caught his eye — Penelope was dressed for the races in a tight-fitting pencil skirt and a fitted waist jacket, complete with heels and hat. ‘Wow!’ The picture put a completely different slant on things — seeing an image of his mentor at his age made her situation all the more relatable to him. He too would grow old one day and he hoped that his passion for life, love and a good story would not wane as a result.

But before he returned to the manuscript he was curious to see if Ms Whitman had any sort of online presence. His search produced many fan pages and old articles. Still, as she didn’t appear to have any social media pages, he took the liberty of creating a page for her, using the stunning picture he’d found on the internet and a banner displaying her most popular books; Peter couldn’t possibly have displayed them all as she had penned over sixty novels in her career. As he wanted to get back to work, he only really created a bare bones page, no information as he felt he should discuss the idea of promoting their venture with the writer before he added anything more, and if she didn’t like the idea, then he’d take the page down. His reasoning was that bedridden, and with no knowledge of computers, Ms Whitman probably had no idea how popular she still was, and if she loved having her ego stroked — which she did — he felt she might take a liking to social media.

After an hour mucking about with social networking, Peter returned to the Dictaphone and was surprised to hear a younger woman’s voice gracing his ears. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him, until he recognised the voice as Gabrielle’s. He would have begun cursing Ms Whitman and her over-zealous means to get him dating, but Gabrielle’s voice was so sensual and captivating that he sat down to listen.

Monique had managed to remove most of her clothes before climbing under the bedcovers and having thought through all the excitement of the day, was just teetering on the verge of sleep when she began feeling rather sensual.

Open to me. A voice whispered the instruction in her mind as her legs were eased gently apart and her clitoris was blanketed in the attention of a warm, wet tongue.

Monique moaned with pleasure; Nathaniel had always been very liberal with his foreplay, and the way he was devouring her favours he was hungry to satisfy. So intense were his attentions that Monique almost wished he’d slow down, she was going to climax in seconds at this rate and she wasn’t even fully awake! He’d never been this eager to please before; in fact no man she’d ever slept with had ever been so intent on giving her pleasure! She tried to reach down under the covers but her hands were batted away as he intensified his efforts. Monique’s passion swelled to all consuming as she became fully focused on her pending orgasm. She was moaning uncontrollably, knowing no one would hear her besides Nathaniel and that was a turn on for him, even if he wouldn’t let her touch him. Her pelvis was raised high in the air when she climaxed and the pleasure radiated all the way through her body, causing a tingling all through her.

‘Nathaniel, that was —’

The bedroom door opened and Monique screamed and sat upright, not expecting anyone else was in the apartment.

‘It’s me!’ Nathaniel switched on the light.

‘It’s you! Then who —’ Monique hesitated to say more, as clearly there was no one in the bed with her now. ‘Oh God,’ she groaned, embarrassed.

‘I thought you were watching porn up here —’ Nat laughed off what was now an embarrassing moment as Monique hung her head shaking it in disbelief.

‘I think I just had a wet dream about you.’ Monique felt like such a schoolgirl. ‘I was asleep, I swear!’ She tried to reason away the event of the amazing orgasm she’d just had, certain she had not pleasured herself into thinking that Nat was seducing her.

‘Wow.’ Nathaniel was flattered. ‘All that was about me?’

Monique was super embarrassed now as her moans of pleasure must have been loud enough to get Nathaniel upstairs to investigate and she did recall pumping up the volume for Nathaniel’s benefit, but this was not what she’d had in mind.

‘I had forgotten how vocal you can be.’ He raised both brows. ‘It made me kind of sorry I couldn’t take you up on your lovely offer earlier.’

Monique melted into a smile. ‘You always know what to say to make everything better.’

‘Let’s hope that comes through in my writing.’ Nathaniel crossed his fingers.

‘I am so, so sorry,’ Monique stressed. ‘I assure you that I had no intention of disturbing you . . . that bubbly was really something else! This will never happen again.’

‘Rather unfortunate,’ Nathaniel concluded, ‘but probably for the best, I’d never get any work done. Speaking of which . . .’

‘Goodnight.’ Monique was eager to end this conversation, as it was as uncomfortable as it was delicious.

Nathaniel turned off the light and pulling the door closed he said, ‘I won’t say sweet dreams, as you seem to have already been there —’

Monique threw a pillow at the door to close it and end the embarrassing experience.

She pondered the ordeal a moment, but was too drunk and tired to care what had triggered the episode. She flopped back onto the bed. Within minutes, Monique was fast asleep.

The recording ended and broke the spell it had cast over Peter, who was left gobsmacked and rather aroused. Gabrielle’s voice had mingled with the young image of Ms Whitman on his computer screen to create the most spellbinding encounter with a character he’d ever had!

‘I doubt my transcription will have quite the same impact.’ He wiped the sweat from his brow and headed for the bathroom.

Once Peter emerged, clean-showered and hair still wet, he felt no less impassioned than he had before. There was something about the combination of Gabrielle’s voice and Penelope Whitman’s talent that was so very alluring! ‘That crafty old . . .’ He stopped short of cursing the hand that was feeding him. ‘Well, if she thinks she can manipulate people in real life as easily as she does the characters in her story, she’s got another think coming.’

Peter decided to make like a professional, and sat down at the computer to play back the digital audio recording and do his job. But the sound of Gabrielle’s sultry oration made his temperature rise and his imagination wander.

‘Get over it!’ He demanded a little focus from himself. ‘No more distractions.’ Peter’s resolve to ignore Ms Whitman’s romantic set-up hardened. ‘They’re just words, type them.’ The statement sparked an idea and Peter grabbed the box to further investigate the Dictaphone software he was using on his computer.

The software had the capability to type up the words on the audio straight from the recording, leaving only the edit and layout for Peter to revise. He decided it was high time he investigated how the automatic transcriber worked as it would obviously spare him a lot of frustration.

When Peter arrived to start his shift the next evening, Penelope could not wipe the grin off her face. ‘How did you enjoy the latest instalment?’

‘The story was very good.’ He gave a professional opinion.

‘And what of my new orator?’ She attempted to weasel a smile out of her nurse, but he seemed just as determined not to crack.

‘Very nice,’ he replied flatly, betraying nothing. ‘Although your voice would have done just as well.’

‘Lying does not become you,’ Penelope grouched, seeing he was going to be a tough nut to crack.

He smiled at her frustration. ‘I’m not one of your characters, Ms Whitman, to be swayed by your will.’

Penelope gasped at his inference, appearing deeply offended. ‘I’ll have you know I never manipulate my characters. All I do is give them options; it is they who decide where the story goes. You’d be a boring bloody character, not to have been a little aroused by our efforts?’

‘The story is very arousing,’ he admitted.

Penelope grinned, watching Peter very closely. ‘There’s more.’ She pointed to the Dictaphone at her bedside and watched his face light up — rather more than usual, she considered on the quiet.

‘Well, as I’m up to date, I’ll take that off your hands.’ Peter was quick to retrieve the device so he could download the latest instalment onto his computer.

‘Thought you might,’ she said, inwardly confident that her spell was weaving its magic.

‘I also have a surprise for you.’ Peter sat his computer down on the desk at her bedside and opened it up. ‘Last night I set you up a social media page.’

‘A what?’ Penelope frowned deeply.

‘A networking site, where people promote themselves and their work. If people like you, there is a button they can click that will allow them to follow updates on your page. The page counts everyone who subscribes and then we know how many people are following our news, and they can pass those posts onto their friends,’ he explained with delight.

‘Sounds like a bit of a waste of time for someone in the twilight of their career,’ she scoffed, hating the idea of having to look at a computer when she had successfully avoided them all her life.

‘This is more for your readers as it gives them somewhere to discuss your work with like-minded others, or express their thanks to you.’

Now that was interesting to Penelope, but at the same time she felt Peter was going to be disappointed. ‘I haven’t had fan mail in years!’ she laughed.

‘Well, you do now.’ Peter grinned, placing the laptop down in front of her, having magnified the page size so that she could see it properly.

The first thing Penelope noted was the image of her he was using. ‘Where on earth did you find that picture?’ She admired it a moment, but was disturbed by a message that popped up on the screen explaining someone had just liked her page. ‘Goodness, someone remembers who I am.’

Peter burst out laughing, pointing to a little box that said 39,674 likes. ‘You got nearly 40,000 likes overnight, without even posting a word.’

Penelope’s old heart began to flutter with excitement. ‘Is that good?’

‘That is extraordinary.’ His excitement brought tears to his eyes as another notification sounded to alert them to another like. ‘And the likes just keep coming.’

‘If they all think I still look like that, I’m not surprised.’ Penelope chuckled at the screen as more notifications popped up and then faded before she could read them. She was afraid to touch anything, but eager to see more and have some control over the chaos unfolding in front of her.

‘Here.’ Peter huddled beside her. ‘You can read the messages your readers have left you.’ He scrolled down a little way, just to show her how many messages and comments there were. ‘But I fear it will take all day.’

‘Stop whizzing all over the place,’ Penelope urged. ‘You’re making me feel giddy. Go back to the top, I want to read them.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Peter complied with her wish, and turned the computer back to face her.

Penelope drank in the words of her adoring readers, moved to tears by their testimonials of how her stories, and the spiritual beliefs ingrained within them, had changed their lives, or seen them through a trying time, by altering the way they perceived reality and the world they lived in. The other common theme that ran through the posts was the query, ‘Will you write again?’

‘This book must happen.’ Penelope saw that now. ‘And I shall lay myself bare as never before.’ She was determined about that, but turned her teary sights Peter’s way to assure him. ‘Figuratively speaking, of course.’

Peter ticked his head sideways, and served her a grin and a frown at once. ‘Of course.’

‘But they will know the truth,’ she uttered, feeling it would be a release to finally get this untold tale out into the world.

‘The truth about?’ Peter posed curiously.

‘Hmmm?’ Penelope queried, having been distracted by her own thoughts.

‘The truth about?’ Peter repeated.

‘What?’ Penelope frowned as though she had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Can I post something?’ She referred him back to the computer, changing the subject.

‘Of course!’ Peter returned to her side to show her, but Penelope just handed the whole machine back to him. ‘Then be a love, and type this up for me.’

‘Happy to.’ He forced a smile and returned the computer to the desk. ‘What would you like to say?’

Peter sat down and placed his fingers on the keyboard, clearly more eager to get on with writing than responding to her fan mail, but to Penelope’s way of thinking, he’d started this and now must follow through.

PLOT

Who was she, this woman crouching on the floor between my legs and unfastening my trousers with professional precision?

‘Do you have a name?’ I run my fingers through the silky golden waves of her hair as her large blue eyes rise to meet my gaze.

There is a hint of a smile on her red painted lips, her expression cool and yet smouldering. ‘Call me M,’ she replies, going down to kiss the tip of my freed member, before sinking it into the warm, wet depths of her mouth.

Nathaniel awoke to a warm, wet unpleasantness across his lower belly, and considering the dream he’d just had, he knew exactly what had happened. ‘Oh man! I so need to get laid.’

He reached for some tissues to clean himself off.

‘What is it with this place?’ Nathaniel recalled Monique’s episode the night before — was this some sort of unconscious response to that? The woman in his dream had said to call her M — M for Monique?

‘I don’t think so,’ Nathaniel decided. The woman in his vision hadn’t looked anything like Monique, but wow what a muse M was! Maybe I was dreaming a scene from my book? Nathaniel considered that M was rather more like the female character who had just entered his detective’s office in his story. ‘I might have to use that little bit of inspiration . . . it certainly got my attention.’

He finished wiping himself off, tossing his tissues in the bin by his desk, having fallen asleep in his office chair. He looked back to his computer screen to read over what he’d been writing before he’d passed out.

‘No way.’ He gasped upon discovering that the detective in his tale had been seduced by the woman who had just entered his office. ‘I don’t remember writing this?’

But it read very well, despite adding a rather more erotic subplot to his story. Not necessarily a bad thing, Nathaniel considered. The scene was steamy, and in all honesty he was rather surprised at his ability to step out of his comfort zone and expose his own sexual fantasies for all to see. ‘I’ll just tell the little woman that she was my muse,’ Nathaniel decided, in case his wife wondered if another woman was powering his imagination. ‘Unless, of course, M turns out to be a treacherous bitch.’

A loud thud startled Nathaniel and when he looked in the direction of the commotion he saw the largest painting on the wall had fallen to the floor. It took a second for him to recover from the shock and wander over, but the work did not appear to have been damaged in the fall. Nathaniel noted the artist’s signature in the bottom corner of the work.

‘Em Jewel.’ He uttered the name aloud. ‘M?’ Nathaniel found the coincidence just a little creepy.

At the appointed changeover time, Monique was crossing the street towards the studio, dragging her bags behind her, and Nathaniel was taking the rubbish out front in his preparation to vacate.

‘So, do you feel like a real writer yet?’

‘I certainly do,’ he assured Monique, shutting the large dumpster. ‘Best decision I ever made.’

Monique was pleasantly surprised to find him in finer spirits than in many a year. ‘I wasn’t too disruptive then?’ She cringed as she asked.

‘To the contrary; I believe you were rather inspirational,’ Nathaniel replied.

‘Really?’ Monique was very surprised. ‘You handled it all so well . . . I should never drink.’

‘Hey, don’t beat yourself up about it,’ Nathaniel urged, with a nudge to the shoulder.

‘But I would never try to sabotage your marriage, Nat; I love Jenna too!’ She was so angry at herself. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I was like, possessed or something.’ She laughed, but Nathaniel did not look so amused now. ‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘No, no, sorry, Mon,’ Nathaniel regained his cheer. ‘Got distracted by a thought for my story.’

‘Well hell, Nat.’ She thumped him. ‘If I’m going to pour my guts out in an apology, you can at least pay attention.’

‘You’re such a drama queen.’ Nathaniel kissed her cheek and headed for his car.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Monique was a little disappointed. ‘You still have a few hours, I’m early.’

‘Nah . . . my stuff is all in the car already.’ He opened the driver’s side door. ‘I need to get home and see my wife!’ he emphasised with a hopeful yet determined smile.

‘In that case, don’t forget to buy some flowers.’ Monique waved. ‘Expensive ones!’

‘Good call!’ Nathaniel gave her the thumbs-up as he climbed into his car, started it up, and drove away.

Monique looked back to the entrance of what would be her studio for the next three days. ‘My turn to create great art.’ She dragged her bags to the elevator, delighted by the prospect.

There was so much space, freedom and privacy to explore her self-expression that Monique didn’t even know where to start! She’d never had such a perfect situation in which to create. Now she could really test herself, away from prying, critical eyes. Monique loved to perform, but choreography was her passion, and now that she had her own studio space she intended to use her time to create her own performance piece.

Thankfully Julian’s sound system had been installed the day they took the lease. In fact, he’d dropped off all his equipment that day and piled it up in a corner. And although the huge assortment of gear took up minimal room in the gigantic space, when Monique docked her iPod into his system the sound filled the place!

Off with her shoes and coat, the dancer took to the floor to freestyle until inspiration came.

Monique danced herself up a mighty hunger, but no concept for a performance.

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day.’ She was not discouraged, as she microwaved some pre-prepared boiled rice and chicken. ‘I’d like to break some new ground . . . do something different!’ Monique retreated to the couch with her snack and a bottle of water. The consumption of food slowed her down somewhat, although she ate this high carbohydrate and protein diet to give her an energy boost! The lounge was comfortable, and as she lay there waiting for her vitality to pick up, a drowsiness overcame her. She still had an hour before she was due at the performance so she allowed her head to loll comfortably on the lounge as she gazed across to the people in the busy clothes manufacturer across the way. The thought of being forced to live a nine-to-five job sent chills through her, and Monique was thankful to have been born privileged, pretty, and talented.

The sound of the lift door opening woke Monique and she raised herself to sit on the lounge, observing a huge canvas seemingly moving through the warehouse on its own. ‘Tyme?’ she assumed.

‘Holy shit!’ The canvas dropped to the floor to reveal Tyme squirming. ‘You scared the shit out of me . . . I didn’t expect you’d be here.’

‘But this is my rostered time in the studio.’ Monique was confused. ‘Why wouldn’t I be here?’

‘I thought you had a performance tonight,’ Tyme explained the intrusion. ‘So I didn’t —’

‘Merde!’ Monique sprang to her feet. ‘What time is it?’

‘A little before five, I guess,’ Tyme shrugged, consulting her inner clock.

‘Dieu merci . . . I’m not late yet.’ Monique scrambled to her luggage to collect her performance gear.

‘I just bought this huge canvas and some other gear, and rather than take them home, where they wouldn’t fit anyway, I —’

‘It’s cool!’ Monique grabbed up her bag and bounced over to join Tyme. ‘You’ve saved my arse.’ She kissed both the artist’s cheeks. ‘Legend!’ Monique ran towards the lift that was being held open by a large bucket of purple powder. ‘Is that paint mix?’

‘It’s chalk powder.’ Tyme strode over to remove the obstruction.

‘You’ve got loads of the stuff!’ Monique noted there were several more buckets in the elevator.

‘Every colour,’ the artist concurred.

‘What are you going to do with it all?’ Monique stepped over the container into the elevator.

‘I’m not too sure yet . . . make great art.’ Tyme removed the bucket but stuck her body in the lift opening instead. ‘I’m experimenting. How did you go today?’

‘No brilliant revelations yet, but I still have a few days left.’ Monique shooed Tyme out of the lift.

‘I’ll be long gone by the time you return, I promise,’ Tyme resisted her prompt. ‘Sorry about the intrusion.’

‘We are friends, you realise? You’re welcome any time,’ Monique stressed. ‘I’m not Nat, who needs silence every second of the day.’

Finally Tyme smiled, and stood aside to allow the lift door to close. ‘Just send the rest of my supplies back up, will you?’

‘But of course,’ Monique agreed, as the lift doors closed before her.

A night off allowed Peter to get up to date with his transcribing. He arrived at the hospital for his usual Thursday morning stop-in to pick up the next instalment to work on that afternoon.

Nurse Valdez was seated behind the large reception desk of the nurses’ station, and her face lit up with excitement upon sighting him. ‘So . . . what did you think?’

As Gabrielle was now dictating some of the tale, she knew what was happening in the story before he did.

‘I thought the last scene was a bit anti-climactic, to be honest.’ Peter leaned on the high side of the counter, looking over it to address Gabrielle. ‘I felt sure something was going to happen with Monique and the ghost —’

‘Em,’ she reminded him, her eyes widening as she dwelt on the character. ‘A man or a woman, do you think?’

Peter shrugged. ‘Maybe it’s just a thought form and it is whatever they want it to be?’

‘A thought form doesn’t usually have passion,’ she debated. ‘It doesn’t create . . . it has angst, it destroys.’

‘Really?’ Peter was surprised to learn this from his colleague. ‘I didn’t realise you had an interest in the occult.’

‘My grandmother was a Bruja,’ Gabrielle explained, and fortunately Peter’s blank expression was enough to get her to expand on the statement. ‘A practitioner of Mexican voodoo.’

‘Really?’ Peter found that both fascinating and frightening. ‘I won’t cross you then.’

‘That is best not done in any case.’ She obviously picked up on and was enjoying his discomfort.

‘I just don’t see the point in Tyme showing up to drop off supplies?’ Peter got back to his critique.

‘Oh, there is a point,’ she assured him with a big grin.

Peter bowed his head to hide his curious annoyance. ‘I enjoyed this process so much more when I was the one teasing you.’ The comment was a little flirty, so Peter had to look up and catch her reaction.

‘I know.’ She pretended to sympathise. ‘But you’re not very good at it. I, on the other hand, intend to take full advantage.’

Her smile, and the way she wiggled her body ever so slightly when she was being playful was a delight, but Peter’s heart nearly jumped into his throat as Penelope’s buzzer sounded.

‘She must have heard your voice.’ Gabrielle pulled an awkward face. ‘I am to send you right in; Fabrizia is here.’

The news sent Peter into a panic, as once again he hadn’t really made any great effort with his appearance — just jeans and a T-shirt. ‘Have I done something wrong?’ He brushed his hands over his brown hair that badly needed a cut.

‘You’ll do fine.’ Gabrielle insisted he just go in and investigate for himself.

Peter knocked and entered Penelope’s room. ‘Good morning, ladies. Am I interrupting something?’

‘Not at all.’ Fabrizia served him a large, impersonal smile. ‘We’ve been waiting for you.’

Peter raised both brows, curious, and grinned. ‘To what do I owe such an honour?’

‘It is I who is to be honoured,’ Penelope advised with a grin, her gaze turning to her agent to fill Peter in on the details.

‘The International Society of Authors wishes to honour Penelope with a lifetime achievement award.’ The agent was clearly delighted for her client.

‘That is wonderful news!’ Peter was excited for his mentor. ‘So well deserved.’

‘Thank you.’ Penelope was aglow, basking in the attention. ‘Some current news for you to post on your social face page.’

Peter was amused by her terminology, but understood well enough. ‘I will certainly do that.’

‘I think it is fabulous that you have dragged Penelope into the twenty-first century.’ Fabrizia voiced her view in a playful yet scolding tone. ‘I’ve been advising her to hire someone to do exactly that for ages.’

‘I attempted.’ Penelope washed her hands of blame. ‘But they all talk gibberish I can’t understand. Peter is the first person under fifty I’ve been able to understand.’

Fabrizia served her client a sympathetic smile. ‘In any case, it’s a positive move in the right direction for promoting 4 Kismet Way.’ She looked back to Peter, with a thankful smile.

‘She loves the title,’ Penelope informed him in an aside.

‘I do,’ the agent freely admitted. ‘I can hardly wait to read the manuscript — or a synopsis at least!’ She raised both brows, expecting someone to start reciting one.

‘We’re only up to chapter five,’ Penelope said, encouraging her not to get too excited.

‘I can start a bidding war with three chapters.’ Fabrizia grinned confidently.

‘But you can’t guarantee completion.’ Penelope raised an eyebrow in challenge and Fabrizia appeared stumped by the implication.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ her agent rallied in all seriousness. ‘I haven’t seen you with this much vitality in years!’

‘I’m only being realistic,’ Penelope advised, devoid of emotion. ‘But if it is any consolation, I believe my muse is very determined that this story sees the light of day.’

‘You speak as if this book has been brewing for a long time,’ the agent noted.

The statement amused Penelope. ‘A very long time. Since the beginning, really.’ She raised both brows in emphasis, her gaze lost in space.

‘An entire career in the musing!’ Fabrizia saw the sales pitch. ‘Very exciting.’

‘Over a million likes,’ Peter updated them both, believing this must have been some kind of promotional meeting. ‘And with your award news, I’m sure we can get you trending in the twitterverse.’

‘All the better,’ Fabrizia concluded.

‘An old chook like me, trending.’ Penelope had a chuckle at that. ‘Fancy . . . even if it is in a universe for twits.’

Peter couldn’t contain his amusement this time and laughed out loud, as did Fabrizia, knowing Penelope was being deliberately facetious now.

‘Be that as it may, everyone is on the internet these days, and if you ask me, it’s the social media work Peter has done on your behalf that has reminded everyone you’re still alive and that has prompted this sudden recognition,’ Fabrizia asserted. ‘That’s how powerful a tool it is.’

‘I don’t care about being famous any more.’ Penelope waved off the lecture, looking from Fabrizia to Peter. ‘And I have no desire to be paraded out in public in this decrepit condition. I much prefer to leave my readers remembering me as I was in the picture you found of me in my heyday.’

This honour being bestowed on Penelope was the fabric from which Peter’s greatest aspirations were woven. ‘But surely you’re excited —’

‘Not really,’ Penelope cut him off, as if having anticipated his view. ‘That is why I would like you to accept the award for me.’ The statement was like a sucker punch to the gut for Peter. ‘What?’

‘Now don’t pretend you haven’t dreamt of such an honour,’ Penelope chided.

‘Yes, for one of my own books,’ he stipulated.

‘Well . . . reality doesn’t always deliver our desires in the form we anticipate,’ Penelope advised, ‘yet we must graciously accept the gift nonetheless. Perhaps the experience is meant to drive you to achieve the same in your own right?’

‘But Fabrizia . . .’ Peter felt she should accept it on her client’s behalf.

‘I am scheduled to be overseas with another author at that time,’ the agent explained.

His fear of giving an acceptance speech in front of hundreds of Penelope’s industry peers left him feeling completely overwhelmed.

‘We shall write the entire speech for you,’ Penelope included her agent in the equation as she buzzed for her nurse. ‘And I’m sure Nurse Valdez won’t mind accompanying you for some moral support,’ she added as Gabrielle entered.

‘Accompany Peter where?’ the nurse queried, wide-eyed with interest.

‘To an awards night, held in my client’s honour,’ Fabrizia explained.

‘How exciting, Ms Whitman,’ Gabrielle commended her patient. ‘Of course, I would be delighted to represent you.’

‘We’ll need to find something appropriate for you both to wear.’ Penelope sweetened the deal. ‘My shout, of course. Actually . . . why don’t the both of you go shopping for the event together?’ the crafty old woman suggested, as if the idea had just come to her, and she hadn’t been plotting to use this event as an excuse to get them dating.

‘I couldn’t spend your money, Ms Whitman —’ Gabrielle declined the lovely offer.

‘Then spend my money.’ Fabrizia handed over a cash card to Gabrielle. ‘There is a thousand dollars on there and I want to see every cent spent.’

Peter felt so set up as to be a little annoyed. ‘This is too much.’ What person would say no to a spending spree and an all-expenses-paid VIP night out on the town?

‘I know I’m asking a lot, Peter,’ Ms Whitman conceded with a hint of heartfelt appeal in her voice. ‘But it would mean so much if you would do this for me.’

‘Of course we will.’ Gabrielle turned back to Peter with a ‘be more considerate’ glare. ‘It would be our honour.’

‘I’ll have my secretary arrange a limousine to drop you off and pick you up from the event.’ Fabrizia began collecting her belongings, obviously feeling her mission here was done. ‘I’ll be in touch with the details . . . and we shall work on the speech over the next week.’ The agent approached to kiss her client farewell. ‘Speak soon, my darling.’

Clearly Peter was outnumbered — he was no match for the will of three determined females, and so he resigned himself to go along with their plans for him. ‘So when is this . . . event?’

‘Two weeks,’ Fabrizia advised. ‘So, best get shopping!’

‘We certainly shall.’ Gabrielle was oozing excitement, and Peter supposed he should have been delighted also.

Peter smiled politely, despite feeling bulldozed, and thanked both author and agent for the honour, vowing to execute their request to the very best of his ability.

THE TRANSCENDENTAL CREATIVE

There is a place inside the artist

where time and space eclipse.

Inspired thought is the pathway there

and interruption — a swift exit.

Once discovered, this place is ever sought,

one exists only to reach it.

The prize is innovative genius.

The cost — most of one’s waking life.

Tyme was so excited to be having her turn in the studio. The visual artist finally had a few uninterrupted days alone to explore her craft, while her daughter was safe and happy at her grandma’s. Her tiny house had now been cleared of clutter and she had a car full of art supplies, works in progress, film, photographic and computer equipment. This haul had to be unpacked before she could do anything, but she was highly motivated, and planned to be creating within the hour.

No sooner did she have her hands full of gear than the phone in her back pocket rang. ‘Must be Julian,’ she grumbled, setting her load down in front of the elevator door — he always called at the most inopportune times. ‘Julian,’ she answered without checking the screen for confirmation.

‘Hey,’ Julian replied, ‘I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?’

‘No, I’ve only just arrived at the studio,’ Tyme lied, as she always did, so they could avoid an apology and small talk, to get to the point. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’ve bought a new amp —’

‘Yes, you can drop it in,’ Tyme cut in. ‘No, you won’t be disturbing me, provided you don’t.’

‘Thanks heaps,’ Julian sounded relieved. ‘I’ll be quiet as a mouse.’

‘Later.’ She hung up, stuck the phone in her pocket, and continued hauling her first load into the lift.

Upstairs, away from the peak hour traffic, the studio was fairly quiet. Tyme shoved a bag in the elevator door to prevent it closing and walked inside to take in the auspicious moment.

The first things she noticed were the unwashed dishes in the sink of the small kitchenette, which put a bit of a dampener on her mood. ‘Oh Mon . . .’ She gave a quiet sigh, having expected the dancer to be a little more respectful of her fellow artists. She cast a more critical eye over the place to see what other mess might have been left behind for her to dispose of.

In the furthest left-hand corner of the studio, where Tyme was storing all her gear, she was shocked to find her new canvas on the floor and Monique passed out, naked and covered in chalk, alongside it. ‘What the —?’

Her initial reaction was rage, but within a breath this was quelled by curiosity. Her sight became fixed on the canvas and she moved closer to view a very sensual work of great beauty. The impression was a little obscured by the excess chalk dust, but Tyme could make out a vague outline of one body looking down upon another, and energy radiating outwards around them in an ombré effect.

Although she feared losing the amazing imprint, she was compelled to raise the frame to its vertical position. The excess chalk fell away, and the abstract image remained and was perfectly defined. ‘She painted this with her body?’ Tyme felt the precision of the strokes was so purposeful as to render that thought impossible, but the piece was absolutely breathtaking.

‘I painted it with dance.’

Tyme swung around to find Monique raising her upper body off the floor.

‘I think,’ she added, sounding a little groggy. ‘I’m so sorry about your canvas; I bumped into it and it fell and tipped one of the buckets of chalk dust over.’ She did not turn to face Tyme or the work.

Tyme walked around in front of Monique, who was looking over her chalk-coated body in amazement. ‘How did I get —?’ She gasped and looked up to Tyme as if she was disoriented. ‘Are you early?’

‘Nope, you’re late.’ Tyme waved that off as a minor concern. ‘You painted that canvas with dance?’ Tyme wanted to be sure she understood correctly.

‘I know, I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.’ Monique raised herself to standing in front of Tyme, unashamed of her nakedness. ‘I’ll pay for a new one, and clean up —’

‘You are missing the point entirely.’ Tyme turned her around to view the work. ‘It’s incredible.’

Monique gasped upon sighting it, for she only remembered experimenting with colour and movement. ‘Oh, mon Dieu!’

‘Please tell me you remember how you did this?’ Tyme entreated Monique, who was absolutely speechless as she wandered forward to view the work more closely. ‘It could be both the exhibition I’m looking for and the performance piece you’re hoping to create.’

Monique laughed and turned back to Tyme. ‘I’m not sure I’m ready to perform naked in public yet.’

‘In a unitard then,’ Tyme suggested.

‘It won’t work.’ Monique pointed to the body shapes. ‘These lines are so defined because this is where my sweat and the chalk mingles. Material has drag and I doubt it will leave the same beautiful imprint . . . that’s why I got naked.’ She nodded, as if only just realising, and moistening her lips with her tongue, she began blowing chalk out of her mouth and wiping the excess from her face. ‘Yuk!’ Monique hung her head upside down, and threw her hair backwards, whereupon puffs of chalk erupted around her.

See that? An inner voice queried Tyme, as the moment slipped into slow motion, and Monique appeared like a goddess shrouded by swirling celestial energy — at least that’s exactly how it would look on film, or in a high-speed photograph, or both!

‘That’s it!’ Tyme exclaimed, near jumping out of her own skin with excitement. ‘What are you doing today?’

‘Nothing.’ Monique shrugged, uninspired. ‘Just heading back to the ’burbs.’

‘Then you must stay and be my muse,’ Tyme insisted, and Monique smiled.

‘I’ve never been a muse before.’ She grinned, rather liking that idea.

‘Think about it,’ Tyme suggested. ‘If you and I collaborate on the same project, we can —’

‘Double our studio time!’ they both concluded at once, screaming with excitement, as they served each other high-fives.

‘Let’s play!’ Tyme clapped her hands and headed back downstairs to collect the rest of her equipment.

‘Wheels! Bloody brilliant!’ Julian was loving this new guitar amp, which he was rolling with ease into the elevator. ‘I’ll be in and out before Tyme even knows I’m there.’ He hit the lift button for the top floor, and the doors closed behind him.

This warehouse was a sweet arrangement, so he didn’t want to cause any dramas before he’d had the chance to take advantage of it. Only three more days and he could use this amplifier without anyone telling him to turn it down.

When the lift door opened Julian was hit by a wall of music, reminiscent of a pagan orgy. After pushing his amp to the front door, he knocked a few times, but his knocks were no match to the conga drums of the tribal piece blasting out of the speakers within.

‘What the hell kind of music is that anyway?’ Julian dug deep into his jeans pockets for his key. ‘Music for possessed people?’ He fished out the key, inserted it into the lock and let himself in.

The first glance of what was going on inside the studio sent Julian’s sensibilities into heated conflict and he was shocked to a dead halt.

Monique and Tyme, completely naked, were rolling around on a canvas covered in colourful dust, and the event was being filmed and photographed simultaneously by Tyme’s computer. His first assumption was that they were shooting porn, which naturally would have delighted him completely, but for the shadowy entity Julian perceived writhing around on the canvas between his two friends.

‘What the fuck is going on here?’ he yelled to protest the incomprehensible scene before him.

Only the shadowy spook reacted — it rose up and vanished, leaving the women as they were.

Julian ran over to the sound system and shut it off, jolting the women out of their delirium and back into reality.

‘What the —?’ Tyme sat up, looking straight to the sound system and Julian. ‘What are you doing? You said you wouldn’t disturb me.’ Then realising she was naked, she crossed her arms over her breasts. ‘Turn around!’ she demanded.

Realising he was probably ogling, he did as requested. ‘I saw something I can’t explain —’ he began.

‘It’s not how it looks,’ Tyme grumbled.

‘I saw a ghost!’ Julian spun around to spit out, to find both the colour-stained women tying on robes. ‘Rolling around between you.’ He pointed to the canvas on the floor, as both women stared at him wide-eyed.

‘Are you serious?’ Monique queried, seeming somewhat enchanted by the notion.

‘No,’ Julian folded his arms, ‘that’s the kind of thing I’m proud to go around shouting from the rooftops . . . of course I’m serious!’

The women looked to each other stunned. ‘I thought it was you directing my body movements,’ said Monique, and Tyme shook her head.

‘I thought you were directing mine.’ She bit her lip, before they both burst into huge smiles.

‘How amazing!’ they both declared at once.

‘Did you even hear what I just said?’ Julian appealed — it scared the shit out of him — why were they so jovial?

‘He’s definitely an artist,’ Tyme appraised.

‘Absolutely,’ Monique agreed wholeheartedly, still grinning broadly.

‘This is not a pet we’re talking about!’ Julian stressed. ‘Don’t you get it? We’ve been duped into renting a haunted house!’

‘So?’ Tyme clearly wasn’t worried. ‘Lots of houses are haunted, and our ghost is creative —’

‘Which is completely wicked!’ Monique did a little happy dance.

‘You’re both fucking nuts!’ Julian waved them off. ‘And since when did you start shooting porn up here?’

‘It’s not porn!’ Tyme was insulted. ‘It’s a performance piece.’

‘Well, I’m definitely coming to your show.’ Julian’s fear and anger fled as he contemplated the notion.

‘We are not performing this live.’ Tyme wasn’t sorry to disappoint him. ‘That’s why I’m shooting it.’ She motioned to the camera, and then gasped. ‘I wonder —’ Tyme shut off the equipment that was feeding directly into her computer, which she made haste towards.

‘Do you think you might have captured Julian’s ghost?’ Monique followed Tyme to view her monitor.

‘It’s not my ghost,’ Julian objected.

‘Who would have thought you were clairvoyant?’ Monique eyed Julian over as if the premise made him somewhat more attractive and interesting.

‘You never know your luck.’ Tyme began viewing the film.

Monique, noting Julian had come to stand beside her and was intently observing their efforts, covered his eyes with her hand. ‘We’re going to edit this tastefully.’

‘Aw . . .’ Julian complained, ‘the uncut version will make more money.’

‘I’m not seeing any ghost,’ Tyme commented, fast-forwarding through the footage.

‘It was there,’ Julian insisted, and irked about being so sure about that, he walked away from the viewing session to check the fridge for a beer. ‘Do you seriously think I would’ve interrupted your delightful little romp without an insanely good reason?’

‘Wait a second,’ Tyme uttered under her breath.

‘Something?’ Julian was stoked to find a couple of Coronas. ‘Thank you, Nat.’ He pulled a bottle from the fridge, kissed it, and after opening it up, he sculled half of it down.

‘Do you see?’ Tyme pointed to her monitor and Monique looked closer.

‘J’ai des frissons,’ Monique gasped, covering her mouth to hide her shock.

‘You see it?’ Julian’s gut sank, and the beer did nothing to dull the creepy feeling he’d had since spying the spook.

Tyme winced at the question. ‘Not exactly.’ She waved him back towards her.

Julian was freaked out enough already, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see whatever Tyme had captured on film.

‘Don’t be such a pussy.’ The artist noted his hesitation and urged him to get over it by waving him forwards.

With a heavy exhale of resignation, Julian tromped over to view the enlarged still-frame capture on Tyme’s computer, and the image made all the hairs on the back of his neck stand to attention. ‘Now tell me that’s not creepy.’ He backed away from the shot of Monique’s thigh that had a clear imprint of a hand pressed upon it.

A shiver ran down Peter’s spine.

The Dictaphone clicked off, startling him back to reality.

‘That’s it?’ he protested, glancing to the clock on his computer to discover it was quite a bit later in the day than he had thought. ‘Speaking of transcendental creative experiences!’ He ejected himself from his desk chair and shot towards the shower — he was going to be late to pick up Gabrielle for their dreaded shopping date.

Not even hot water pelting on his head could lift the shroud the story had cast over his consciousness. This was a different feeling to reading a completed book, over which he had no say in the outcome. Being involved in the writing process put him inside an evolving reality over which he imagined he held some influence. Even though this was Penelope’s tale, they’d discussed facets of the story, which he’d polished in his edit, and the old writer seemed pleased to take his ideas on board and always appeared satisfied by his efforts. Penelope wasn’t precious about her words, she was only dogmatic about her characters and her worlds and making sure he was depicting them faithfully.

Peter had asked Penelope recently if she had ever left a story uncompleted.

‘Would a good teacher agree to mentor a student, then neglect him in favour of other students?’ was her response.

Peter was well aware of Penelope’s respect for her muses. ‘Have you passed up many stories then?’

‘Only one,’ she was irked to advise. ‘Its muse has been exhaustingly persistent.’

‘4 Kismet Way,’ he suspected.

Penelope’s wink confirmed this guess. ‘I will know peace before I die.’

‘If torture is being constantly pitched ideas by the muses,’ Peter said, ‘then give me hell.’

‘Oh, they will,’ Penelope cautioned. ‘Have no fear of that.’

Upon turning the taps off, Peter was alerted to a pounding on his door. ‘I haven’t had another time lapse, have I?’ He wrapped a towel about himself, then headed out to see who the caller was.

At the door was a young man, grinning from ear to ear, who had a package and a clipboard in-hand. ‘Peter Lemond?’

‘Yes.’

‘Sign here, please?’ He held out a delivery notice with scribble on it that Peter couldn’t read, but he signed it nonetheless. ‘May I say you are one lucky son-of-a-bitch, I hope you have a garage.’

Peter frowned, wondering what this guy was on. ‘I do, but I don’t have a car at present.’ He handed the clipboard back.

‘You do now.’ The delivery man placed a key in his hand that had an Aston Martin keyring attached. ‘Totally made my day, man!’

‘There must be some mistake?’ Peter looked to the rather dated keyring, that was very weighty but in good condition.

The lad read out the name and address on the delivery form, which Peter confirmed. ‘No mistake then, I parked it just out front.’ He passed Peter an envelope addressed to him, and waved in leaving. ‘Luckiest dude on the planet!’ he repeated, ahead of turning and parkouring down the stairwell.

Peter rushed to the window of his unit to see a pristine sports car in British racing green parked out front. He opened the envelope and pulled out the registration papers for a 1960 Aston Martin DB4 GTZ. ‘Holy shit!’ The accompanying note read:

First impressions are everything. And someone may as well be driving it. Accept with my gratitude, P.W.

Peter was as elated as he was infuriated. ‘This goes way beyond scheming!’ He was falling over himself to get dressed and get down to the treasure, before someone breathed on it.

‘Holy shit!’ Peter couldn’t stop repeating, as he circled the pristine vehicle parked on the street outside his unit block — his principles preventing him from climbing in the car. ‘Good God, this woman can read me like a children’s book!’

He hated the idea of knowingly playing along with the old author’s matchmaking plot, but the idea of not driving the most beautiful car he’d ever been offered the keys to was twisting his stomach into knots. ‘I was crazy to think I have some influence in this story when I don’t even seem to have any influence over my own life!’

The trouble was this car was Peter’s very first case of love at first sight. ‘I won’t be a puppet,’ he insisted, but glancing at his watch he realised that if he didn’t drive to the hospital now, he was going to be late. ‘God damn it!’ Penelope had planned the delivery time to perfection. ‘Well, I can’t just leave it here, either.’

Left with no option but to comply with Penelope’s wishes, Peter found it impossible to hold his angst, as driving her car proved to be one of the best experiences of his adult life. Once he was behind the wheel of this classic automobile, people looked at him with envious eyes, and women didn’t just give him a second look, they were openly staring and giving him the ‘come hither’ smile.

By the time Peter reached the reception desk at the hospital, he couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face.

Gabrielle was behind the desk, briefing the casual nurse who worked Peter’s nights off and Gabrielle’s days off. ‘Hi!’ She served him a huge smile — clearly excited about their shopping date. ‘I’ll be right with you, just give me a few minutes to get changed.’

‘No rush,’ he assured her. ‘I need to have a brief word with Ms Whitman anyway. Is she awake?’

‘Yes, she wants to see you also.’ Gabrielle motioned. ‘Go right in.’

Peter entered to find the author enjoying afternoon tea, and closed the door behind himself. ‘You know I can’t possibly accept your beautiful gift.’

‘Odd, I took you for a classic Aston Martin kind of man,’ she said. ‘Would you have preferred the Ducati?’

‘What?’ Peter was shocked to a smile by the question. ‘No, that’s not what I meant. That car you want to give me must be worth a fortune —’

‘It is! But I am hardly going to garner any more joy from it, and it has certainly put a rose in your cheek,’ she was happy to note.

‘But it should remain as part of your estate —’

‘For whom?’ Penelope asked, as if she couldn’t imagine.

Peter had made a point of not prying into the writer’s private life, but he knew she had children somewhere — though she never spoke of them, and they never called or visited. ‘Well . . . your descendants,’ he suggested diplomatically.

‘Ha!’ Penelope found that notion amusing. ‘My children wouldn’t take my money if you paid them to do it! And it would be rather a shame to have some government office profit from the sale of my Aston, don’t you think?’

Her words took all the wind out of Peter’s argument, and he desperately wanted to ask why Penelope’s children would spite her so.

Clearly Penelope sensed the query hanging inside the awkward silence. ‘Write, and you don’t live. Live, and you don’t write,’ she said with a heavy sigh in her tone. ‘I chose to write, and my marriage and family suffered for it. Selfish as it may seem, I still don’t regret that choice. I understand now why so many artists end up alone. Once you experience how it feels to work in tandem with creation, earthly pursuits and companions just can’t compete. My family are all better off with someone who realises they exist.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Peter felt terrible for dredging up what was obviously a painful topic for Penelope, especially after her incredibly generous offer. ‘But if that is the case, then why are you trying to set me up with Gabrielle?’

‘In the hope that, unlike me, when you die, it won’t just be your stories that pass before your eyes, there will be actual real-life memories too. As for the Aston, it’s just stuff, Peter; it’s meant to be used. In the end, it doesn’t matter how expensive it is, or how new and shiny you keep it, once your soul leaves your body it’s all just meaningless junk! The best you can hope for is that it gives someone else as much pleasure as it once gave you.’

Tears were welling in Peter’s eyes and he swallowed hard to try and stave them off. ‘It certainly does that,’ he attempted to be more gracious. ‘It’s just that I’m not well practised in accepting the generosity of others, as it is not a scenario I’m very well acquainted with.’

‘Well, as a writer you have to get used to being gifted things, because your work inspires others and they want to give back. You’ll have to learn how to take compliments, as well as criticism.’ She cut into her cake with her fork. ‘Still, in the end, the only thing that matters is whether you’re happy with your work. And I am very happy with our efforts thus far.’ She popped the forkful of cake in her mouth and savoured it.

‘The feeling is mutual,’ he assured her.

‘So, you keep the car,’ Penelope summed up, happy to have got her way — an attitude that would normally have irked Peter, yet he was having trouble not choking on his emotion.

It wasn’t how overwhelming her generosity was. It was more the sadness he felt in realising that the woman he admired so greatly — who had been a godsend in his life — had no one more precious than himself to gift her life treasures to.

‘I shall cherish it,’ Peter confirmed, barely managing to hold his voice steady.

‘And I shall cherish that you do,’ she grinned. ‘Off with you then, and don’t come back until you have some clothes to match that car.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Her bossy tone lightened the mood and Peter roused a sincere smile.

‘I want to see you looking far smarter tomorrow.’ She placed aside her fork and reached for her pot to pour another cup of tea.

‘But I’m only shopping for the awards night,’ Peter reminded her.

‘Learn to plan ahead, Peter. If you meet my agent looking like a vagrant once more, I’m simply going —’

‘Point taken.’ He waved and turned to exit.

‘I would hope that getting a haircut goes without saying?’

Peter turned back, tempted to ask if she was his mother or his mentor, but he bit his lip as Penelope raised both brows, inviting a challenge.

‘Of course.’ He forced a smile to remain gracious.

‘Stick.’ Penelope held up the item containing the next segment of their story.

‘Must not forget that.’ Peter was thankful to receive the next instalment. ‘I have a feeling Julian is not going to enjoy his studio time as much as he expected.’

‘I guess you’ll find out.’ She handed over the item, and then she shooed him out. ‘Go! And have fun. You do remember what that is, don’t you, Peter?’

‘I feel just like Cinderella,’ he assured her, and Penelope found his comparison most amusing.

‘At midnight the Aston will turn into a six-pack and pizza, I promise,’ she bantered, and he openly laughed.

With a knock, Gabrielle joined them in the room. ‘Sorry to interrupt —’

‘You’re not,’ Peter assured her, before noting quietly that he’d never seen Gabrielle looking quite so fine.

‘You look lovely, my dear,’ Penelope noted for Peter’s benefit — he knew she was blind as a bat and couldn’t see anything beyond the tip of her nose. ‘Have fun, kiddies.’ She waved and went back to her tea.

‘Are you starting to feel like a character in one of Penelope’s books?’ Peter asked Gabrielle as they exited the hospital.

‘We should be so lucky.’ Gabrielle didn’t sound opposed. ‘They almost always have a happy ending. Speaking of which, do you have the latest pages for me?’

Peter pulled the memory stick he’d finished with from his pocket and handed it over.

‘Very good.’ She slipped the item into her handbag as they headed across the staff car park towards the one car parked there. ‘Wait.’ Gabrielle came to a halt. ‘This is your car?’

‘Nope . . . I stole it just for today.’ The tease avoided the query nicely, and Gabrielle laughed.

‘It’s gorgeous!’ She emphasised her delight as she approached the treasure to admire it more closely.

‘Fairly distinctive,’ Peter warranted. ‘So chances are I’ll probably be arrested before our date is over.’ He pulled out the keys and unlocked her door, opening it for her.

‘If you stole it, then how did you get the keys?’ Gabrielle grinned as she slipped inside and he closed the door.

‘You’ve got me there.’ Peter rounded the car and unlocked the driver’s-side door. ‘I’m really an heir to great fortune who is working as a humble night nurse to spurn my greedy, tempestuous family.’

Gabrielle was sceptically amused. ‘Inside every fiction writer hides a consummate liar.’

‘I haven’t written anything, yet.’ Peter got comfortable and started the motor.

‘You will.’ Gabrielle nestled into her seat.

‘Why so sure?’ He let the engine idle and warm up.

‘My grandma said so.’ Gabrielle turned her large dark eyes his way, and she appeared completely serious. ‘And her prophecies are never wrong.’

‘This is your Mexican voodoo grandma?’ Peter was feeling a little creeped out about that, and he wondered if it was Gabrielle who was the consummate liar.

‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded. ‘And now you want to know exactly what she said.’

Peter’s grin gave him away, he couldn’t deny it. ‘Actually, I’m wondering why you were speaking about me at all?’

Gabrielle served him a sassy look. ‘We’e working together on a project, my grandma knows that.’

‘So, what did Grandma Valdez say?’ Peter took the bait.

‘Shopping first.’ Gabrielle grinned broadly.

‘Never miss an opportunity to tease,’ Peter realised, as he released the handbrake and got the car moving.

‘Nope, I never do,’ she agreed with glee.

The reason Peter didn’t have any new clothes was because he hated shopping, but then he’d never had such entertaining company. Gabrielle was everything he wasn’t — confident, vivacious, outspoken and at times brutally honest. He really didn’t get much say in the suit he bought, or the haircut he got, but then Gabrielle seemed to know what suited him better than he did. Still when it came to choosing her gown for the evening Gabrielle was all questions. What colour? Short or long? What about this one? And the ever infamous — does this make my arse look fat? The response ‘What arse?’ seemed to appease. Waiting around for her to change into various different dresses — all of which looked amazing on her — was as boring as hell, but watching her emerge and swish about in front of him was completely captivating.

‘I think this might be it!’ she called out to him, ahead of opening the doors to reveal herself wearing a flowing lilac evening dress with a plunging neckline and revealing lilac lace panels all over the place, exposing bare skin beneath.

‘Oh my God.’ Peter covered his eyes, unable to bear the torture any longer.

‘You don’t like it?’ She sounded so disappointed.

‘I do,’ he was quick to assure her, and could not wipe the grin off his face. ‘You look stunning,’ he admitted wholeheartedly, whereupon her beaming smile returned.

‘Now for shoes!’ She rushed back into the dressing room to change.

She was going to make many old writers ecstatically happy, or give them all heart attacks — the notion made Peter chuckle. He’d rather expected this date to be hell on earth, yet he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so jovial. Penelope’s little scheme was falling beautifully into place and he really didn’t give a damn.

Laden with shopping bags, they were headed back to the car when Gabrielle spotted an elegant men’s shirt hanging on a rack outside a shop, which she insisted Peter try on.

‘We’ve already bought some shirts.’ Peter was over shopping now.

‘They’re just for everyday,’ she advised. ‘This one is so you have something to wear when you take me out to dinner.’

‘I’m taking you to dinner, am I?’ Peter grinned.

‘Of course.’ She shrugged. ‘When you finally get around to asking me.’

Peter was flattered and affronted at once. ‘As a wise old woman once said, it pays to be prepared.’ Peter dropped his bags and took the shirt from her. ‘After this, we eat and you tell me what Grandma said?’

‘Done,’ she agreed happily, at which point Peter walked straight up to the counter, bought the shirt and returned to Gabrielle.

‘Let’s go.’

‘You’re not going to try it on?’ She appeared delighted, albeit stunned.

‘Not unless you want me to take you somewhere swish for dinner right now?’ he replied, sensing that was not really the vibe of the evening.

‘Heavens no! I’m not going like this.’ She referred to her figure-hugging shirt and jeans, which looked sensational in his opinion.

‘Fish and chips on the beach then?’ he posed and Gabrielle smiled broadly.

‘Abso-frigging-lutely!’

It was coming on to sunset as Peter walked back from the fish and chip shop across the road from the beach, with dinner and drinks in hand. The beach was pretty well deserted, bar a few joggers, a couple of fishermen, and Gabrielle leaning against his car watching the waves roll in to the shore. He didn’t have a free hand to take a photo, but halted to take a still frame in his mind. Not even Penelope Whitman could write a scene that was so picture perfect — this was one of those moments in life that he’d never forget.

As if sensing eyes upon her, Gabrielle looked his way. ‘Oh, thank God, I’m starving!’ She galloped over to assist.

‘No, thank me, I went and got it.’

‘Thank you, Peter.’ She unexpectedly kissed his cheek and relieved him of the hot food, leaving him to bring the drinks. ‘Let’s eat!’ She grinned broadly at leaving him overwhelmed.

They set out their feast on a picnic table close by the car, and ate for fifteen minutes, saying little beyond ‘yum’ or ‘good’.

But once Peter’s initial appetite was appeased, he wiped his face and fingers on a napkin and paused to speak. ‘So, time to spill the beans on what Grandma said.’

Gabrielle grinned, and revelling in prolonging the suspense, she nodded. But she wiped herself with a napkin first. ‘When I told her that you wished to write a book yourself, she said that wish would be granted. Grandma said she could see you winning awards of your own.’

‘Is that right?’ Peter liked the sound of that.

‘Yes,’ Gabrielle insisted, obviously sensing his scepticism. ‘But . . .’

Peter didn’t like the sound of this. ‘There’s always a “but”.’

‘It will not be a story you choose to write, it is a story that will choose you.’

‘A muse.’ Peter felt he understood the implication.

‘And it will not be an easy story to write,’ Gabrielle informed him.

‘How so?’

Gabrielle averted her eyes sideways and towards the heavens as she considered the query. ‘Grandma said that the material would be rather outside your comfort zone.’

‘Well.’ Peter had not expected that reply. ‘That does sound intriguing. I’m sure Penelope would say, “If it’s not outside your comfort zone then it’s not worth writing”.’

Gabrielle gave a laugh and nodded in agreement.

‘Anything else Grandma thinks I should know?’ Peter inquired.

‘About the book, you mean?’ Gabrielle clarified and when Peter nodded, she confirmed, ‘No.’

‘But she said other things about me?’ He sensed this from the phrasing of her query.

‘Just personal stuff you’d probably rather not go into.’ She waved off further comment.

Peter was suddenly very alarmed — not that he truly believed Gabrielle was telling the truth about her psychic grandma. ‘What kind of personal stuff?’

‘Like . . . she said your parents had stifled your writing career, even from beyond the grave, but Penelope was the key to unlock those chains and set you free.’

Peter’s heart stopped beating a moment as the statement was so accurate — too accurate. ‘You’ve been talking to Penelope.’ The reasonable explanation made him relax a little.

Gabrielle appeared a little offended, but kept her humour. ‘Well, yes, I talk to her every day, but not about the private lives of my work colleagues. Not that Ms Whitman would tell me about your private conversations, even if I did.’

That actually rang true for Peter, so now he was back to feeling bewildered. ‘No, you’re right, sorry.’

‘No need to apologise; Grandma’s insights stun most people.’

‘I’ll have to meet this grandma of yours.’

‘Because you don’t believe me.’ Gabrielle forced a smile, brushing her hands together to rid them of the excess salt as her mood took a swing towards annoyed. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Western men get freaked out by occult matters.’

‘I’m not freaked out,’ Peter stated not wanting this perfect day to end in a confrontation — what if Grandma Valdez really was psychic?

‘Oh, really?’ Gabrielle challenged, hands on hips. ‘You’re not freaked out right now?’

Peter suddenly realised he was not going to be able to pull off that bluff. ‘Well . . . yes, I am freaked out,’ he admitted, but before Gabrielle could roll her eyes, added, ‘but only because I’m scared Grandma might have said something damning about me.’

‘Then I wouldn’t be here.’ Gabrielle smiled in conclusion.

‘But as far as I know you’re just doing a favour for Penelope.’

‘And I could say the same of you,’ she pointed out, then stood and backed up from the table. ‘Let’s settle this, shall we? Come here.’

Peter rose and confronted her, but before he could ask what she had in mind, she was kissing him in a fashion that left no doubt in his mind that she considered him more than just a friend.

‘Do you think that was for Penelope?’ she asked as their lips parted.

‘Absolutely not.’ He moved in for another.

‘Let’s not get too excited,’ she forestalled his intent. ‘You still haven’t even asked me out to dinner.’

‘What is this then?’ Peter appealed his cause.

‘This is a bite to eat after shopping.’ She moved to wrap up the remains of their meal and shove it back in the bag, and then turned back towards Peter to shrug. ‘And Grandma saw us kissing on a beach, so . . . I thought, what the hell.’

‘Yay, Grandma!’ Peter realised that Grandma’s visions obviously had their perks too. ‘What else did Grandma see about us?’

‘I think we’ve heard enough about Grandma this evening,’ Gabrielle decided. ‘And as I have to work in the morning . . .’ She looked to him, appearing as mournful as he felt that this magical day had to come to an end.

SUBPLOT

Julian arrived a little early to begin his occupation of the apartment, in the hope of keeping someone else there with him until the rest of his band arrived later in the evening. He planned to buy the girls dinner if they would hang around, and was surprised to run into them in lower level car park where their car spaces and bins were located.

‘Sorry, I have a performance.’ Monique waved off his offer, and blew them both a kiss. ‘Au revoir.’ She headed for the street exit door.

‘How about you?’ Julian looked to Tyme, who was loading computer equipment in her car.

‘I haven’t seen my little girl in three days, Julian, I miss her. It’s a lovely offer, but I am going home.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Julian glanced towards the elevator doors and was filled with dread.

‘What do you mean?’ Tyme wondered. ‘You are finally getting the whole place to yourself. You should be thrilled!’

‘Yeah.’ He was sorry that was no longer the case.

‘This sudden hesitation about the studio isn’t about that ghost, is it?’ Tyme clearly thought he was being juvenile. ‘Look, we haven’t heard a peep from him, he’s gone! Don’t worry about it.’

‘You didn’t believe it had been there in the first place!’ Julian questioned her powers of observation. ‘Not until you saw the video.’

‘Well, us girls have been in the studio for days and we’re still living and breathing aren’t we? It’s harmless.’

‘Maybe you’re bewitched?’ Julian posed.

‘Only witches bewitch you, not ghosts.’

‘Be-ghosted then?’

‘No such thing,’ she assured him. ‘I am the expert on occult matters, and I’m telling you that you have nothing to fear but fear itself. We attract what we think about, so don’t think about it. K?’

‘K.’ Julian resigned himself to facing the entity alone, and the look on his face must have reflected his trepidation.

‘Oh, come on.’ Tyme grabbed him by the shoulder of his shirt. ‘I’ll stay for a cup of tea, but that’s all.’

‘Awesome.’ Julian was most relieved. ‘Are you making?’

Tyme served him a look that implied he was pushing his luck.

‘Just kidding.’ He held both hands up in defence, although truth be known he wasn’t — Tyme made far better tea than he did. ‘Just let me grab some stuff from the car and lock it.’

‘I suppose you’ll want a hand with that?’ Tyme assumed.

‘That would be great!’

Tea in hand, Julian stood admiring the huge canvases that Tyme and Monique had been working on the last few days, and he was in awe. Julian didn’t know much about art really, but he knew what he liked. ‘These are amazing, I want one!’

‘You just like it, ’cause you can see tits and arse in it!’ she jibed, taking a sip of her tea and wincing. ‘Julian this tea is terrible! Did you just wave the teabag over the cup?’

‘Hey, I offered to let you make it and you declined.’ He looked back to the painting. ‘And it’s not just that these paintings are sexy. I like the vibrant colour mixes and all the swirling patterns. It makes me feel kinda . . . free.’

‘I like your critique. Let’s hope others, with money, feel the same way.’ Tyme placed her mug aside on her desk. ‘You know what’s really interesting?’

‘What’s that?’ Julian placed his mug aside and pulled a pre-rolled cigarette out of the pouch that he kept in his T-shirt pocket. He lit up and looked back to Tyme who seemed hesitant to enlighten him.

‘Nah, forget it,’ Tyme waved off the detail. ‘I don’t want to freak you out any further, or I’ll never get home.’

‘Now you have to tell me.’ He glanced around the warehouse warily. ‘Is it about your spooky friend?’

‘Our spooky friend has a name,’ Tyme informed him in a relaxed fashion.

Julian felt his inner panic returning. ‘How do you know? Have you spoken with it?’

‘No,’ she stressed, as if he was being alarmist, and moved towards a large door that was by the spiral stairs that he hadn’t even noticed before now. ‘I saw this cupboard and thought I’d check out what was in here as it might be good storage space for the supplies I’m not using.’

Julian followed, curious, albeit wary, of where this was leading.

‘It turns out it is good for storage.’ She opened the large door and behind it was a rather larger than expected walk-in cupboard.

‘Holy moly, this is bigger than the bedroom upstairs,’ Julian noted. ‘At least it would be, if it wasn’t filled with all this crap.’

‘But there’s no window.’ Tyme pulled away a drop sheet that was covering a large pile of stuff.

‘Perfect for sleeping during the day,’ Julian considered, as he could never get any room dark enough for his liking.

‘Perfect for storing artwork, too.’ Tyme’s effort revealed several large canvases, and the one at the front seemed very similar in style to those Tyme and Monique had just been working on. ‘I believe these were painted by our ghost.’

‘Wait, what?’ Julian was a little taken aback, mistaken in thinking they were also Tyme’s works.

‘Em Jewel,’ she announced. ‘I’ve checked the few works still hanging around the house and they are all the same artist.’

Julian’s body was immediately besieged with shudders. ‘You were right, this is creeping me out.’ He retreated back into the warehouse proper, and dragged harder on his cigarette in the hope of ridding himself of the uncomfortable feeling. ‘Don’t mess with its stuff, you might stir it up!’ He beckoned her out of there.

‘Every artist likes having their work admired.’ Tyme did as requested and closed the door. ‘But it’s not just artwork in there, there are old instruments, books and handwritten texts, so I think Em was more than just a painter.’

‘I don’t care!’ Julian told her frankly. ‘The agent should have had that all cleared out of here, and no offence to Em, but I’m going to have him do so.’

‘Jules, he won’t; this place came with furniture, as is —’

‘Then I will!’ he whispered harshly.

‘Then you will piss Em off. No artist wants to see their work thrown in a dumpster! I wonder if they’re worth anything?’ Tyme suggested a rethink. ‘The owner must be storing them for a reason. I wonder if we could find out?’

‘Read my lips.’ He pointed to his mouth to emphasise. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘Then you don’t have to.’ Tyme ended the argument. ‘I’m going to go.’

‘No!’ He headed after her. ‘You can’t just lay your ghost trip on me and leave!’

‘Jules . . . the sooner you’re left alone here to realise this ghost is benign, the sooner you’ll start talking sense again.’ She grabbed her bag and headed for the front door.

‘And what if you’re wrong?’ Julian objected, ceasing his pursuit.

‘Then use your fear and write something good.’ She exited through the door and closed it in her wake.

‘Aw, crap. I gotta learn to make better tea.’ Julian looked around the studio, seeking out his nemesis, but he was not brave enough to request its presence. ‘It’s too damn quiet in here.’

Julian walked over to the sound system and plugged in his iPod. He chose a current playlist and felt immediately more relaxed once the place filled with sound. ‘That’s better.’ He began bopping along with the music and, grabbing up his guitar from its stand, he threw the strap over his head and shoulder, and fished a plectrum from his jeans pocket. Fingers to the strings, he played a chord and right on cue the power went out.

‘What?’ He looked to the sound system to find it defunct. ‘Aw, you’re shitting me!’ He placed the guitar aside and made a move to check if the entire building was out, or just the apartment. The lift wasn’t responding. ‘God damn it!’ He headed for the fire exit, which was locked closed. ‘Well, it’s a good thing the place isn’t on fire!’ He kicked the door, which only hurt his foot. ‘So I’m stuck here, with no power and a fucking ghost!’ He walked back into the apartment and slammed the door closed, angry — which suited him fine as it made him braver. ‘Well, fuck you, Em!’ He served the apartment the finger with both hands, and headed to the fridge that he’d stocked with beer. ‘I ain’t leavin’ anyway.’

A few long gulps of beer from the bottle and he felt braver still. ‘I don’t need power to make noise, you know?’ Julian went over to where his acoustic guitar stood, still in its hard case. He lay the case on the floor to crack it open, but the catches, which had no lock, were jammed. ‘Oh, come on!’ He tried again, but the latches wouldn’t budge.

‘Don’t mess with my stuff!’ Julian roared as he stood, and then had a blinding moment of clarity. ‘Oh, I get it.’ He nodded in accordance with his own reasoning. ‘This is about your stuff, isn’t it?’ He retrieved his beer and had another swig. ‘A deal, then,’ he proposed. ‘I promise not to touch your stuff, and you don’t fuck with my stuff either? How about that?’

The locks of the guitar case flung open and startled Julian. The sound system lit up and music filled the room once more.

For a second Julian froze up, fearing the entity could sense the deep pangs of panic pulsing outwards from his being, but regardless he was not about to show it. ‘Good deal. Thanks, Em.’ Julian tried to sound and appear cool about their arrangement, but it was now painfully clear to him why the storeroom had never been cleared out.

The feeling of being watched dissipated when the rest of the band arrived and they downed a few more beers. They all loved the place and Julian was not about to let on that he had any reservations.

The effects of the alcohol relaxed him, and Julian was completely absorbed in the good vibe of just jamming with his band when the sound of a cello playing among them became apparent. The sound of the additional string instrument steadily increased in volume, while the sound of his band began to fade, and when Julian raised his eyes he found that his band were no longer present.

In their place was a beautiful blonde woman who appeared like something straight out of a period film. Her hair fell in perfect waves around the milky white skin of her face and her long elegant neck. Julian knew nothing of history really, so he couldn’t even hazard a guess at what time period she was portraying. She was dressed in an elegant silk and lace gown that was the colour of champagne and fit to her torso very snugly, exposing a mesmerising cleavage. From the tip of her head to her waist she appeared the perfect lady, but she had her long skirt hitched up over her knees to expose her long legs and bare feet. Her modesty was maintained by the cello, well placed between her widely spread thighs.

‘Too easy!’ she cried vivaciously and served him a winning smile, as they stopped playing.

‘Too easy?’ Julian was captivated, he’d never seen such a gorgeous creature in all his born days.

‘Play with me,’ she invited, and struck out a sequence of notes, which Julian easily reproduced on his guitar. Her lead became progressively faster and more complex, and although it was a challenge to keep up with her, Julian was rather enjoying himself.

‘You’re quite good,’ she encouraged, with an impassioned smile and a lick of her lips. As they built to a crescendo, the beautiful cellist groaned with pleasure, and playing the final stroke of the piece, smiled broadly at him. ‘Delicious.’

‘Julian?’

The lighting in the room suddenly altered. It was only now that Julian realised that the cellist had been sitting in streams of light that were pouring through the huge warehouse windows onto her. Yet it was actually the middle of the night and his band stood under the overhead lighting staring at him with their mouths gaping open.

‘Where the hell did you go, man?’ Kevin, the bass player, appeared completely bemused.

‘Yeah, fucktard, how am I supposed to play drums to that?’ Max tossed his sticks away.

‘Hey, I kept up,’ boasted Tommy, from behind his keyboard. ‘Just a little bit of Myaskovsky Concerto in C Minor for Cello, if memory serves. You never mentioned you’d studied classical music, Jules?’

‘I just played what?’ Julian was feeling a little seedy at this point, his gut was churning.

‘Nikolai Myaskovsky, Russian composer,’ Tommy clued him in. ‘Died about the middle of last century. Pretty obscure, dude.’

‘Oh damn.’ Julian’s gut turned — had he just had a close encounter with their resident ghost? ‘Em, is a woman,’ he uttered, giddy and decidedly queasy.

‘Who is Em?’ Tommy queried.

‘Never mind.’ Julian handed his guitar to Kevin on his way past. He’d never make it to the bathroom upstairs, thanks to those bloody winding stairs, so he ran for the kitchen sink and promptly emptied the contents of his stomach into it.

‘Poor Julian.’ Peter entered Penelope’s room at the beginning of his shift.

‘Indeed,’ she agreed with a grin.

‘So Em is a woman.’ The events in the tale seemed to indicate this.

‘It would appear so,’ Penelope concurred, but Peter noted she seemed not entirely convinced.

‘I suspect Em might just adapt to whatever persona the observer wants to see.’ Peter began his daily check, strapping the cuff of the sphygmomanometer around Penelope’s upper arm and inflating it to measure her blood pressure and pulse rate — he noted this was a little high again today, which was a concern.

A mild stroke was what had landed Penelope in hospital care five years ago. Her blood pressure had been fine until recently, and Peter hated to think that writing this book might become a health issue for her.

‘Speaking of transformations . . .’ Penelope eyed him over. ‘You actually appear quite suave with that haircut.’

‘So very pleased you approve.’ He removed the cuff from her arm and placed the apparatus aside.

‘Was your shopping date a success?’ she probed, seeming far more interested in his love life than the book they were writing.

‘We bought everything you requested and then some.’ He knew she wasn’t interested in the retail details, but that was all she was going to get from him. ‘I’m sure Gabrielle has filled you in.’

‘Quite,’ was all she said, being as obviously evasive as he was.

Again Peter felt her puppet strings compelling him to her will as he was naturally curious about Gabrielle’s impression — but he was not going to be drawn into her inquisition.

‘Did you ladies manage to get any work done today?’

Penelope appeared most disappointed by his comeback. ‘I would never have taken you for an authoritarian.’ She reached into her side table drawer and from it retrieved an envelope along with the usual memory stick.

‘You typed it out?’ Peter was bemused, as the items were handed to him.

‘In the envelope is the award speech.’

‘Oh.’ Peter turned it around to break the seal.

‘No,’ Penelope urged his restraint. ‘Don’t open it.’

‘After work, perhaps?’

‘No,’ Penelope insisted. ‘Not until you accept the award.’

‘You want me to read this cold!’ Peter was horrified — it was bad enough that he had to read it at all under such circumstances.

‘If you explain to the audience this was my wish then it will give them cause to be twice as patient with you,’ she disclosed her strategy.

‘You think?’ Peter was sceptical, placing the items aside to get on with his routine. ‘Now who’s being punitive?’

‘I know you believe this is some sort of punishment, but nothing could be further from the truth.’ Penelope whipped her bedcover aside to expose a leg for Peter to jab.

‘Trial by fire more like.’ He administered her blood-thinners, and covered her back up.

‘There is far more to being an author than just writing the story. There are interviews, talks, panels, promotion, research —’

‘We haven’t done any research for this story,’ Peter pointed out to side-track her lecture.

‘I researched it eons ago,’ she advised. ‘Like I said, this muse has been persistent.’

‘Did you record your research anywhere?’ Peter was intrigued to hear this. ‘Perhaps I should read it?’

‘When we get to the part in the tale where the research is pertinent, I’ll tell you where to find it and not before.’ Penelope conveyed her annoyance at being rushed. ‘But my point is you have to get comfortable with dealing with people from all walks of life, as one never knows where a tale might lead you. So you need to be prepared to venture out of your comfort zone and to do so with wild abandon and confident flair!’

‘Outside my comfort zone,’ he repeated what Gabrielle’s grandmother had said about his future novel. ‘Has Nurse Valdez been telling you about her grandmother?’

‘Do stop changing the subject,’ Penelope grumbled. ‘It’s hard enough for me to keep my train of thought. What has Gabrielle’s grandmother got to do with anything?’

‘Look,’ he stood corrected, perhaps the turn of phrase was pure coincidence? ‘Clearly, I don’t have any confidence or flair.’

‘One does not just automatically possess such traits; they are cultivated,’ Penelope stated, matter-of-fact. ‘Hence fate is awarding you the opportunity to surprise yourself.’

‘Hopefully in a good way.’ He remained cynical and Penelope lost her patience.

‘As your mentor I can only open doors. You can walk through them or not.’ She shrugged as if she didn’t care either way.

‘I believe I’ve already been shoved through the door on this one,’ Peter joked in an attempt to lighten her mood.

‘Well, none of us are getting any younger,’ Penelope reverted to a civil tone, ‘so I suggest you make the most of it.’

‘I promise you I shall, if you promise to calm down.’ Peter was more concerned about her at this point. ‘Your blood pressure is up again, did you get out for a walk today?’

‘Yes,’ she said, shaking her head in the negative to confess the truth indirectly, and Peter served her a displeased look. ‘Who has time for walks?’

‘Ms Whitman, your health is far more important than any story,’ he insisted in all seriousness. ‘Nurse Valdez should know better —’

‘I told her I was feeling nauseous,’ Penelope came to her nurse’s defence.

‘And were you?’

‘A little,’ she confessed with a pout.

‘And do you still feel nauseous?’

‘No, it’s passed.’

‘Good,’ Peter concluded. ‘It’s quite warm out, so I’ll be back presently to take you for a stroll.’

‘But —’

‘No buts.’ Peter was enjoying telling her what to do for a change. ‘Fresh air and exercise are very important. Besides, I thought writers liked to go for long walks.’

‘Only when under fifty,’ she retorted. ‘And even then I only walked when I had writer’s block and couldn’t find any weed.’

‘Ms Whitman!’ Peter was surprised at her.

‘What? I lived through the sixties, you know. I was very active in the peace movement.’ She served him a devilish grin. ‘What I wouldn’t do for a drag on a spliff these days.’

Peter was stunned that she even knew that term. ‘I hardly think smoking is going to improve your blood pressure any.’

‘Good for the nausea, though,’ she bantered, looking hopeful.

‘When you were under fifty, perhaps.’ Peter’s buzzer went off to alert him to another patient needing his assistance. ‘But today, a walk is the best you are getting out of me.’ He headed for the door.

‘Fascist killjoy!’ Penelope called after him.

It was a long, long time since Penelope had been on a moonlight stroll with a young man, and just quietly she had to admit she was rather enjoying it. It brought back memories of happier days. ‘The young have no idea how much they take their freedom for granted . . . God knows I didn’t cherish it enough when I had it.’ They walked at a snail’s pace through the hospital gardens. ‘But once you get to my age, everyone is telling you what you can and can’t do. It’s like childhood all over again, only now you know what you’re missing.’

‘What do you miss?’ Peter politely rolled with her topic.

‘The little things mainly . . . like preparing my own meals just the way I like them. Making a cup of tea whenever I feel like one. Having a bath on a whim, and soaking for hours, if I choose.’

‘And smoking weed,’ Peter discreetly added.

‘That most of all.’ She sighed. ‘In my day everyone smoked something, and every artist had a vice.’

‘But today we know better,’ Peter’s tone had a touch of a rebuke about it.

‘That’s debatable,’ Penelope scoffed. ‘I smoked weed for fifty years and it never did me any harm.’

‘Ms Whitman . . . you had a stroke,’ Peter reminded her.

‘It wasn’t smoking that gave me a stroke,’ she argued passionately. ‘It was —’ She caught her tongue, having thought better of explaining. ‘It was a stressful situation.’

‘That might have exacerbated the issue, but I doubt very much it was the cause.’ Peter advised kindly, but Penelope found his view rather irritating.

‘You’ve been brainwashed by medical science and pharmaceuticals, but look to quantum physics and it will tell you that it is what you believe that dictates your reality. There are no facts, only opinions.’

‘So you’re saying that if I don’t believe smoking weed will hurt me, it won’t hurt me?’ Peter shook his head in disbelief.

‘I am saying that what you choose to believe will shape your existence,’ Penelope clarified. ‘Popular opinion is usually cultivated for a profit; find out for whose profit, then form an opinion, don’t just repeat what you’ve been told.’

‘Are you going to hit me with a conspiracy theory now?’ Peter asked cynically.

‘Conspiracy theories make for great books!’ Penelope was surprised by his attitude.

‘But what if it’s not true?’

‘There is no truth, only perspective, I just got through telling you that. Besides, in fiction,’ she emphasised, ‘it doesn’t have to be true, only feasible.’ She felt suddenly weary and noting this, Peter led her to a chair. ‘I suppose you think I’m just a crazy old lady.’

‘No.’ Peter smiled. ‘You have a unique perspective, but that doesn’t make you insane.’

‘I never was a conformist,’ she admitted. ‘I despise being told what to do.’

‘But you are in this institution willingly. Why stay then?’ Peter posed curiously.

The answer was bound up with the reason for her stroke, which she dared not think about, let alone mention. ‘It seems an odd thing to say, given that I’m a writer, but I like the feeling of having people around me these days. My house is so large it could take fifteen minutes for a nurse to get from the kitchen to my rooms,’ she joked, although the thought of her home made her feel even more nostalgic. ‘There was a time I adored my solitude. I recall sitting at my desk with my trusty typewriter, tea to one side, smoke in-hand, gazing out at the spectacular view of my pool and gardens as I mused my next tale. How indulgent that was. Such moments filled me with a sense of achievement. I was a self-made woman, doing what I loved for a living and nothing could hold me back. But as old age crept up on me those simple pleasures became a chore. Do you know how difficult it is to find a reliable weed dealer when you’re sixty-five?’

The premise amused Peter, as it did her, for a moment.

‘They’re all kids, afraid you’ll drop dead on them!’ She waved off the woe. ‘As my dearest friends departed this world, I socialised less and less, and before I knew it my solitude became more like a prison than a release.’

‘Well.’ Peter grabbed for his phone as it sounded and read the message. ‘If you ever want to go anywhere, you just let me know and I’ll arrange it. But right now it’s time for Mrs Porter to have her medication. I’ll just run and grab a wheelchair to get you back, won’t be a second.’

It was a lovely offer, she considered as she watched Peter leave with haste and grace, but anywhere she really wanted to go could only be accessed via her own imagination or memory — which always proved far more fantastic than actually being at the said destination, and far less trouble to get to.

She sat back and gazed up at the open sky and the moon swathed in cloud, to pretend that she was sitting in her own back garden. Penelope imagined that any moment she would spring up and return to a party. Once upon a time she’d hosted many a shindig where she would dance and converse the night away with other like-minded artists; only to crawl into bed at dawn and sleep through well into the afternoon. The chorus to the old song, ‘Those Were the Days’ sprang to mind, which Penelope uttered out loud. Penelope was rather chuffed to have remembered all the words, but their sentiment left a bitter taste in her mouth. Where once she’d sung this like a manifesto with friends, alone now she understood the lament it was always intended to be.

Nathaniel was coming to the end of his four-day stint in the apartment, during which time he’d been more productive as a writer than he’d ever been. On the other hand he hadn’t washed a dish, or had a shower — he’d only slept when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any more. He adored not having to deal with another living soul and just submerging in the creative process, but when Monique arrived a little early for her occupation his dishevelled state and that of the apartment was a little embarrassing. ‘Sorry about the mess, I’m going to clean up, you’re just a little early.’

Monique was stunned speechless for a moment. ‘Sorry, it’s just that you’re normally such a neat freak, I wouldn’t have guessed you had an inner slob,’ she joked.

‘Don’t you start. I just said I’ll clean it up.’ He grabbed his dishes and began piling them in the sink.

‘Nat, I was just kidding.’ Monique was a little shocked by his hostile reaction. ‘As a fellow artist I completely understand why you would want to take advantage of every second you have here. I don’t give a shit about mess I never was much of a homemaker, as you know. Ah . . .’ Monique sounded enlightened. ‘Does Jenna not like our arrangement?’

‘She thinks I’m having an affair.’ Nathaniel lost his anger, and looked back to Monique.

‘And are you?’ Monique queried, eyebrows raised in anticipation.

‘Only with my book.’ Nathaniel switched the kettle on, feeling coffee was needed.

‘Good,’ Monique concluded. ‘Because if you have an affair, it had bloody well better be with me.’

‘Of course.’ Her flirting always made him smile. He did love Monique, but flirting was in her nature, she was a free spirit, and he’d accepted that. ‘Jenna thinks I must be having an affair because I keep vaguing out when she’s talking to me, writing little secret notes on my phone, and barely contacting her when I’m here.’ This really pissed Nathaniel off. ‘She doesn’t understand that I have to sink into a world to write about it! She doesn’t understand how long that process takes! Or why I don’t welcome her little interruptions just to tell me that she loves me, or about some insignificant thing that happened during the day, which could have waited until I got home.’

‘Well tell her,’ Monique suggested.

‘I did tell her!’ Nathaniel prepared the coffee. ‘And her conclusion is that I’m lying to cover an affair!’ He threw his hands up, exasperated. ‘I should never have married someone with no artistic passion whatsoever, she just can’t relate.’

‘You didn’t tell her that?’ Monique hoped for his sake.

‘I might have.’ Nathaniel placed her coffee in front of her and retrieved his own cup before sitting down at the table.

‘Oh, Nat, you didn’t. You don’t want your marriage to suffer —’

‘Why not? I’m miserable, she’s miserable, we’re already suffering!’ Monique was surprised to hear this, but it obviously felt good to Nathaniel to vent. ‘If not for having a family, I wouldn’t be working a job I hate. Nor would I be living with a woman who seems to have forgotten I exist! Except for when I attempt to find the time and means to do the only thing that truly makes me happy . . . then she wants to know my every move, my every thought!’

‘Oh, Nat,’ Monique sympathised with him, as she always did.

‘I know that all makes me sound like an unfeeling bastard, but I’ve finally found my bliss, Mon. I found it all by myself . . . and I’ve realised I don’t need anyone else to make me feel good, that nurture all comes from within myself. Is it so surprising that I don’t want to give it up, or live without it a good part of the time? I dread leaving here to go back to the grind. And even when I do, my head is still here, in the story. My boss is complaining, my wife is complaining, and all I really want to do is tell them all to just bugger off and leave me be!’

Monique was a little bemused. ‘I know you’ve always wanted to write, but I’ve never seen you this obsessed.’

‘I know,’ Nathaniel agreed.

‘I know how that feels,’ she concurred, ‘but how would you afford this luxury if you were not working that job? And once you have this book out of you, how would you feel not having Jenna and the baby to share that accomplishment with? In the end you still have to come back and face reality, it would be better to have no regrets.’

‘I just don’t want to leave.’ Nathaniel looked around the warehouse.

‘Well you have to, as the rest of us have projects to be getting on with.’

‘I meant the story,’ he corrected. ‘I just want to stay in it, and still get paid.’

Monique pouted as she considered his statement. ‘How far into the story are you?’

‘Thirty thousand words, more or less.’

Monique appeared impressed and then smiled broadly to inform him, ‘Most agents can sell a novel based on the first three chapters, why not try a few, see if you get any bites? Land a publisher and they’ll pay you to finish it.’

‘I actually hadn’t considered that.’ Nathaniel felt his heavy heart lighten.

‘Then Jenna would also realise that you’ve been telling the truth.’ Monique grinned in conclusion.

‘It’s moments like this I wish we had stayed together.’ Nathaniel flirted, as that was Monique’s soul food.

‘Don’t be silly.’ She placed a hand on his. ‘I was an utter bitch, and still am, really . . . you deserve so much better. That’s why you married Jenna.’ She let him go and sat back in her chair.

‘I should have listened to you, Mon.’ Nathaniel recalled her repeated warnings that he wasn’t ready for marriage and a family.

‘Never listen to me when it comes to relationship advice, I’m always wrong,’ Monique insisted.

‘So are you wrong now, telling me to save my marriage?’ Nathaniel challenged.

Monique was stumped and laughed at the query. ‘All I know is that I was rotten jealous when you proposed to Jenna; I would have told you anything to swing your favour back my way. But whether that was because I loved you madly, or simply because I must have everyone’s attention, I still can’t rightly say.’

‘God, I miss your no-bullshit honesty, Mon,’ Nathaniel said.

‘Except for when I cheated on you, don’t forget that part.’ Monique noticed a pack of cigarettes on the table and helped herself. ‘I thought you gave this up?’

‘Only “for the sake of the baby”,’ he droned. ‘Well, the baby is not here.’ He grabbed a cigarette himself and the lighter; lit Monique’s cigarette for her and then his own. ‘Nope. I’ve decided I don’t like real life very much at present.’ He puffed away thoughtfully.

‘Hence your need to escape into your tale.’ Monique exhaled the smoke.

‘I confess I am obsessed with it, and I think I’ve fallen in love with one of my characters. Em.’ He opened up about it for the first time to anyone.

‘Why M?’ Monique wondered. ‘What’s her real name?’

‘I have no idea.’ He smiled, rather enchanted by the challenge of finding out.

‘So she’s the lover Jenna thinks you’re dating?’ Monique was enlightened.

‘I’m afraid so.’ He grinned. ‘But she’s in a lot of trouble and I doubt very much if she shall live to see the end of this book.’

‘How sad.’ Monique faked disappointment. ‘But I’m sure your hero is up to the challenge.’

‘I hope so.’ Nathaniel loved that Monique didn’t shoot down such conversation to insist they talk about real people and real world affairs.

He obviously knew it was insane to be so involved with the world he was writing about and its occupants; it was madder still that he was falling in love with a figment of his own imagination over his flesh and blood wife! Yet he seemed unable and unwilling to resist the allure of either.

After aiding Nathaniel to a calm state and helping to clean up his mess and get him out the door, Monique was relaxing with a coffee when Tyme came stumbling in with her bags.

‘Praise the universe, I made it!’ She collapsed against the front door to close it and dropped all her baggage. ‘I thought I’d never get here!’

‘Tea?’ Monique suggested, as Tyme never drank coffee.

‘Hell, yes!’ She rolled off the door, head last, and staggered to the kitchen table to sit down. ‘It’s hell out there in the real world.’

Monique gave a laugh. ‘Nat was just saying the same thing.’

‘Must be something going on with the planets!’ Tyme emphasised. ‘My mother is reluctant to do the extra babysitting so I can spend more time on our project, my daughter has been in my face all week when I’ve been trying to edit film! She’s recently stopped having her daytime sleep, and has been really ratty at night. It’s been a nightmare! I’ve never known her to be so demanding.’

‘We children,’ Monique advised, ‘resent when we notice your attention is on something other than us.’

‘I know I’ve been distracted,’ Tyme admitted. ‘And the fact that I have been away more is just exacerbating the issue, but I’m so obsessed with our idea!’

‘There’s that word again,’ Monique noted.

‘What word?’

‘Obsessed.’

‘But I am,’ Tyme justified. ‘I went back through the footage and digitally blew up and enhanced a bunch of stuff . . . Em’s hands were all over us! It looks like we’ve done some serious special effects, with no budget at all!’ Tyme was jumping out of her skin with excitement as she moved to fetch her laptop.

‘M?’ Monique said. ‘That’s the name of one of the characters in Nat’s book.’

‘Well it also happens to be the name of our ghost,’ Tyme informed her.

‘How do you know?’ Monique was intrigued.

‘His name is on all of the paintings in here,’ Tyme explained. ‘I found a whole cupboard of his stuff by the stairs.’

‘But he’s a he,’ Monique stated.

‘I know.’

‘But Nathaniel thinks he is a she?’ Monique grinned at the idea of Nathaniel in love with a man.

‘Em might be effeminate, or even gay, but I think our ghost is definitely a male.’ Tyme opened her computer, and clicked on the file she’d been working on.

‘I completely agree.’ Monique now suspected that her lustful encounter in the bedroom after opening night had been with the entity in question.

‘So what makes Nat think he’s a female?’ Tyme asked curiously.

‘I have no idea,’ Monique confessed. ‘I don’t even think he’s aware that there is a ghost!’

‘You didn’t mention it?’ Tyme was flabbergasted.

‘Well, you saw how Jules took it.’ Monique shifted in her seat, perturbed. ‘If they both freak out and decide to back out of the lease —’

‘I get ya.’ Tyme gave her a wink. ‘Good call.’ She looked back to the screen to play her rough-cut of their footage for Monique. ‘The footage of you tossing your hair around full of powder . . . once I slowed it down, well . . . Wow!’

Monique’s eyes opened wide and welled with tears — she looked like a goddess rising from the ashes, and in another capture she appeared shrouded by celestial mist. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she uttered.

‘But, wait for it,’ Tyme coaxed.

The next piece of footage was a slow-motion capture of Monique’s thigh and stomach as five invisible fingers left their impression as they moved over her bare skin. ‘That looks amazing!’ Monique was not left chilled as she had been before, only excited by the aesthetic and artistic beauty of it.

‘I believe we should call it “Spectral Impressions”,’ Tyme stated, and Monique squealed with delighted approval.

‘That suits the concept very well. J’adore!’

‘Looks like we have a name for our exhibition then.’ Tyme held a hand up for a high-five.

Monique served her one gladly. ‘We rock.’

The sound of the elevator crunching to a stop drew their attention to the front door.

‘Maybe Nat forgot something?’ Monique suggested, hoping she didn’t have to talk him into going home all over again.

The door opened and Julian entered.

‘Jules!’ Both girls were surprised to see him and he didn’t look happy.

‘What brings you here? We’re not shooting any porn tonight, if that’s what you’re hoping?’ Tyme jibed as he walked over to join them, his scowl unwavering.

‘I’m just here to drop off my keys.’ He shocked them both as he placed the keys on the table and stepped away. ‘I’ll pick up my stuff on my next rostered day, and then I’m out!’ He threw his hands up in resignation.

‘What!’ The girls panicked.

‘But you’ve already paid a month in advance.’ Tyme pointed out.

‘Keep it.’ He waved off the matter. ‘It’s my gift to you while you find somebody else.’

Tyme was on her feet now. ‘What happened?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it!’ he declined, backing up to the door, appearing most eager to depart.

‘Did Em hurt you?’ Tyme insisted.

Jules shook his head.

‘If you’re going to leave us in the lurch, don’t we at least deserve to know why?’ Monique stood also and used her most charming tone to implore him to be more forthcoming.

Julian relented and re-joined them at the table. ‘I think I might have been possessed,’ he whispered, as if not wanting the ghost to overhear. ‘Yet she was right there with me —’

‘Where with you?’ Monique uttered. ‘Who is she?’

‘Em is a woman,’ Jules advised Tyme. ‘I know, because I saw her plain as day this time.’

‘And where did you see her?’ Tyme was intrigued.

‘Here,’ he replied, ‘in my music, she plays cello, and coaxed me into playing along with some Russian hit from last century!’

Both the girls burst into delighted smiles.

‘Don’t!’ Julian warned against voicing their excitement. ‘I know you two think it’s all very fascinating, but I prefer being in control of my own senses, thank you very much. I’ve got no desire to be drawn back into history by some chick who’s been dead for the better part of a century!’

‘You think you time travelled?’ Tyme queried.

‘I don’t know what happened! Maybe she came to me? But Em is not of this time, I can tell you that much. I’ve been talking to her in my sleep, apparently, so Sofie is pissed and has left me, as of this morning.’

‘Oh, Jules.’ Tyme moved to give him a hug, which Julian accepted. ‘I’m so sorry.’

‘Well, on the upside,’ Julian summed up, ‘I can practise at home now, as the band are moving in.’

‘You’re better off without her.’ Monique waved off his heartbreak.

‘I disagree! But that’s beside the point.’ Julian let go of Tyme to caution them both. ‘A dead person has influenced the events of my life beyond these walls. I advise you both to break the lease and get the fuck out of here before your lives start falling apart as a result.’

‘But what if Em influences our lives in a good way?’ Tyme posed, seemingly unfazed in the wake of his warning.

Julian shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve said my piece, what you do is up to you.’ He headed directly for the door, not to be waylaid again. ‘Sorry again. I’ll catch you round.’ He closed the door in his wake.

‘Well,’ Tyme concluded looking back to Monique, ‘this mystery just gets more and more intriguing.’

‘I don’t understand how M could possibly be a woman.’ Monique was bemused.

‘Well, admittedly we haven’t actually seen Em,’ Tyme pointed out.

‘But I felt . . .’ Monique was going to say felt him.

‘But you felt . . . ?’ Tyme prompted.

‘Sure M was a man, that’s all.’ Monique forced a grin.

‘I’m more worried about the shortfall in the rent.’ Tyme sat herself down to muse over the problem.

‘Don’t worry,’ Monique said. ‘I feel Nathaniel may be looking for some additional studio time before too long.’ Her attention shifted towards the stairs. ‘You found a cupboard of stuff belonging to M, you said?’

‘Yeah.’ Tyme accompanied Monique to point out the whereabouts of the door in question.

It was as if it had just appeared there. ‘How did I not notice that before?’ Monique was stunned only for a moment. ‘There seem to be too many conflicting accounts about M. He’s a she, she’s a cellist, he’s a painter.’

‘Time to hunt up some facts, you think?’

‘Absolument.’

A TURNING POINT

‘You are such a tease, Ms Whitman.’ Peter entered Penelope’s room, all spruced up to attend the literary dinner, but he was more excited by the developments in the story. ‘We are on the verge of finding out something significant about Em, I can feel it. Is it the handwritten texts Tyme spotted in the cupboard before?’

Penelope grinned and cocked an eye. ‘Spoilers,’ she warned. ‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Of course,’ Peter insisted.

‘Well . . . I’m not going to tell you.’ She pointed to the memory stick containing the latest instalment that sat alongside a set of keys and an envelope on her bedside table. ‘The keys are to my house —’

‘What!’ Peter feared her intent.

‘I’m not giving it to you.’ Penelope chuckled at his dismay. ‘But you will need the keys to retrieve the research I did on this book.’

‘Oh, thank heaven.’ Peter breathed again, and was elated to learn of his literary quest, the object of which was better than buried treasure to him.

‘That could prove an interesting pursuit for after the gala this evening,’ Penelope hinted. ‘Feel free to make yourself at home; there will be no one about there in the evening.’

Peter raised an eyebrow, sensing another of Penelope’s romantic schemes afoot. Yet, as this entire evening had been orchestrated by the author, he’d decided to just succumb to the experience and enjoy being one of Ms Whitman’s characters. ‘The envelope contains the instructions of where to locate the said research, I assume.’

‘Right again.’ She winked.

‘Again?’ Peter caught her slip of the tongue, as he collected the items and tucked them safely in the pockets of his suit. ‘So I was right about the story arc.’

Penelope waved off his victory. ‘Well, we are at the first turning point, so of course something major must happen or our readers might lose interest!’

‘That’s highly unlikely,’ Peter gave his view. ‘And you’re avoiding my query.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with your writerly instincts,’ she awarded him his due. ‘All you need is a good story to follow and you’ll be on your way.’

‘Well, I’m glad you think so.’ Peter was actually feeling more confident in that regard. ‘Tell me more about this research.’

‘Blah! Why should I waste my breath when you can read it for yourself? But I will say . . .’ She paused to consider. ‘The world was not ready for this story when the muse first brought it to me, and I’m still not entirely sure if the world is ready for it now.’

‘Is that why you waited so long to write this tale?’

‘Partly.’ Penelope leaned back against her pillow and closed her eyes for a moment.

‘Ms Whitman?’ Peter noted how pale and tired she appeared. ‘Are you feeling quite well? Because if you’re not, and you’re not telling me because of this evening —’

‘I just need a little rest,’ she assured him with a smile.

‘I’m going to check your blood pressure —’

‘There’s a nurse here, you’re not leaving me to fend for myself.’ Penelope gripped his wrist to waylay him ‘You are not using me as an excuse to get out of this.’

‘Why not? You got me into it,’ Peter bantered. But then, resigning himself to the fact that he might have been imagining things in order to be excused from this night’s events, all of which terrified him a little, he decided to smile and for once be gracious. ‘Thank you, Penelope . . . for the opportunity to see inside a writer’s life. It is my great honour to be mentored by you.’

Penelope’s eyes welled with tears. ‘Well, thank you for listening to the rantings of an old fool.’

‘Fool? No.’

‘I have been foolish,’ Penelope insisted, ‘I chose my characters over my friends and family.’

‘I understand that —’

‘Some of them did, too,’ Penelope warranted. ‘But it’s still no excuse for never being there for those who loved and cared for me so well.’

‘And what of the millions of people you have helped and will never know?’ Peter countered. ‘Whose lives and entire perception of the world have been altered by the concepts explored in your work? Your social network is filled with such stories, and you’ve certainly stimulated my creative psyche enormously!’

Clearly, the old author was comforted by his view. ‘Well, we can’t have it all, and I’ve had more than most.’

With a knock, the replacement nurse opened and stuck her head around the door. ‘Are you both ready for the big reveal?’

He must have looked like an animal caught in headlights — it wasn’t that Peter knew he was about to swoon, more that he was worried about saying the wrong thing when he did.

‘Yes, the suspense is killing us!’ Ms Whitman answered on his behalf.

His failure to respond highlighted Peter’s habit of downplaying the gifts life threw at him. Playing it small was not serving anyone; not himself, and certainly not these women who had gone to such lengths to make this evening one for him to remember. So what if it did all go to hell tomorrow? If he just detached himself from the outcome, there was only this moment to enjoy for what it was. He’d been reading Penelope’s other books in his spare time and her philosophies were making more and more sense to him. ‘When venturing out of your comfort zone, do it with wild abandon and confident flair.’ He quoted Penelope quietly back at her, and she appeared overjoyed that he would take her advice to heart.

‘You look the part.’ Ms Whitman winked at him, as the door was opened wide and in sauntered Gabrielle in her lilac lace evening gown. Her hair was gathered back in a bun of curls, and she wore only earrings and a bracelet — nothing to detract from her long lovely neck and plunging neckline. ‘What do you think?’ She walked a little circle for them, the train of the dress trailing behind her.

Penelope gasped, adjusting her glasses as she strained to see the spectacle. ‘You look like a princess, my dear.’

Peter stepped forwards and took up Gabrielle’s hand. ‘You look absolutely magnificent.’ He drank in the vision of her — equally memorable to his mental snapshot of her on the beach — and despite all his insecurities and against his own nervous character, Peter raised Gabrielle’s hand to his mouth and kissed it. It was both uncomfortable and vindicating when all three women in the room sighed, charmed by the gesture.

‘Why, Mr Lemond, you look rather dapper yourself!’ Gabrielle beamed, seemingly smitten by his transformation also.

‘Oh . . . I almost wish I was going with you.’ Both Penelope’s hands were pressed to her chest as if to contain her excitement.

‘Shall we tell her?’ Gabrielle prompted Peter to make their announcement.

‘Your lovely agent has arranged for the ceremony to be streamed live to your TV!’ Peter motioned to the screen by his patient’s bed.

‘Really?’ Penelope lit up at the announcement.

‘I have a computer here that will relay the stream that Nurse Henly will set up for you.’

Their standby nurse gave Penelope the thumbs-up to second Peter’s statement.

‘So I shall expect a full critique when I return,’ Peter told Penelope, whose hands were now holding her face in shock.

‘Oh, my goodness, how exciting!’ She drew a deep, satisfied breath and exhaled it again. ‘Well, you had both best get moving, or I won’t have anything to watch this evening.’

‘We shall do our best to represent you in a favourable light.’ Gabrielle gathered up her train over one arm to make her gown more manageable to walk in.

‘I haven’t looked so favourable in years!’ Penelope fobbed off the concern. ‘Just have a wonderful evening, and I shall enjoy it all from the comfort of my warm bed, with a lovely cup of tea.’

‘I’ll be in with all the gossip in the morning.’ Gabrielle waved on her way out.

‘I shall look forward to that.’ Penelope returned the gesture.

But Peter couldn’t leave without having a quiet word to the nurse in charge. ‘Could you check Ms Whitman’s blood pressure for me? If there are any problems at all, call me.’

‘She’ll do no such thing!’ Ms Whitman called out — there was nothing wrong with her hearing. ‘Just leave, before I have security evict you!’

‘You, behave,’ Peter cautioned her in good humour. ‘No getting over-excited.’

‘I haven’t been over-excited since the discovery of quantum theory,’ she scoffed, ‘so you have nothing to worry about there.’ She waved in finality and he returned the gesture with a laugh.

‘Peter,’ Gabrielle took his arm and led him out of the room. ‘Time to leave,’ she gave him a supportive grin. ‘Do you have your speech?’

Peter pressed a hand to his jacket, where the envelope was folded and tucked into a pocket. ‘I have my speech,’ he confirmed.

‘Well then, you have me . . .’ She continued to gently guide him to the door, ‘and a limousine waiting just out front, so . . . we are good to go.’

Inside the limousine there was champagne on ice, which Gabrielle wasted no time in popping the cork on. ‘A glass?’ she offered.

‘I think I should refrain until I make this speech,’ Peter declined.

‘I think you need to loosen up.’ She poured the champagne. ‘One can only help.’ She passed the glass to him, and he accepted.

‘You’re probably right.’ He waited for Gabrielle to pour one for herself and sit back in the seat beside him. ‘What shall we drink to?’

‘To Penelope Whitman, to you and all writers, artists, mystics and misfits, without whom our world would be rather dull and boring.’

‘To the misfits.’ He clinked his glass gently against hers, and they drank to that.

‘Not this evening, however.’ Gabrielle looked out the window at the passers-by who were all gazing at their ride. ‘Tonight we are the king and queen.’ She looked back to him, clearly thrilled by the fact.

Rather than make some insecure comment like ‘don’t remind me’, Peter chose to change the subject. ‘So are you going to tell me what Monique and Tyme discovered in that cupboard today?’

‘Oh, come on, Peter.’ Gabrielle appeared disappointed in him. ‘Life is good this evening; leave the fiction behind for one night.’

‘Sorry. I feel rather like the characters, I don’t want to come out of the story,’ he admitted.

‘And look at where their reluctance to strike a balance has got them. Julian has lost his girl, Nathaniel is fighting with his wife, Tyme is neglecting her daughter, and Monique is probably wondering if she’s having a lesbian affair with an otherworldly being!’

Peter laughed at her summation of the plot line.

‘I think Penelope might be trying to weave a lesson in there somewhere, don’t you?’ Gabrielle raised her glass to him again, and then polished off the contents.

‘I know she regrets some of the sacrifices that she had to make to pursue her writing career,’ Peter warranted.

‘I think the point is that she didn’t have to make those choices,’ Gabrielle reasoned. ‘She just needed to find a balance and not be obsessed with her fantasy world all the time. Without real life experience, what is there to write about anyway?’

‘Someone else’s life?’ Peter posed, and Gabrielle gaped at his cheekiness. ‘Which reminds me. Penelope has arranged a little treasure hunt for us after this event.’

‘Really?’ Gabrielle’s expression switched from perturbed to completely fascinated. ‘What fun!’ She placed her glass aside and clapped her hands together. ‘Thanks so much for inviting me.’ She kissed his cheek and then brushed away the mauve lipstick imprint she left behind, using the napkin that had been wrapped around the bubbly. ‘Note to self, no kissing until after the event.’

‘Aw,’ Peter objected playfully as Gabrielle sat back to inspect her work.

‘I know you’ll do a wonderful job.’

‘I aspire to prove your confidence is not unfounded.’ He felt that was about as optimistic as he could be right in this instant. ‘Have you ever had that feeling of knowing that you are walking into a pivotal moment in your life?’

‘I do know that feeling.’ Gabrielle clutched his arm to reassure him, ‘I feel it right now.’

‘You do?’ He was surprised and then touched by the way she was gazing at him.

‘This is the start of something big,’ Gabrielle concurred.

‘Is that what Grandma said?’

‘That’s what I say.’ Gabrielle kissed his lips this time.

All concern and nerves flew out the window, as Peter’s attention was snatched into the present, where the kind of bliss and contentment he’d only read about had magically made an appearance in his own reality.

Penelope was propped up in bed in front of her TV monitor, watching guests flood into the room at the literary event.

This was not a televised affair. Fabrizia had hired her own transmedia expert to shoot and stream the event live to both Penelope in hospital and herself in Europe. They would also be keeping a recording that could be uploaded to Penelope’s new social media pages.

‘Goodness, that’s quite a turn-out for you, Ms Whitman,’ Nurse Henly commented, as she placed a tray of tea and cake in front of Penelope.

‘Well, it’s not all for me, other awards are being presented too.’ Penelope was gracious. ‘They’ve done a lovely job with the room.’

‘It’s very elegant,’ her nurse agreed. ‘Now I’m off to do the rounds, but you enjoy!’

‘I certainly shall,’ Penelope rubbed her hands together in excited expectation, ahead of reaching for her teapot.

It took a little while for the ceremony to get underway, and there were several preliminary awards that were handed out to the year’s best books by genre.

‘Oh, do get on with it.’ Penelope had exhausted her tea supply, her eyes were getting weary, and she feared she was going to drop off to sleep and miss her big moment.

‘Now, it is my great honour to present this year’s lifetime achievement award,’ announced the presenter.

‘Thank goodness for that.’ Penelope raised her left hand to grip the side of her head, semi-aware of a headache beginning to brew that she hoped to stave off until she’d seen Peter deliver her speech.

The presenter waffled on about her many books and achievements, accompanied by a video presentation about her life and her work, memorable scenes from her many films and television productions, and portions of interviews she’d done over the years. Normally, Penelope would have been flattered, but the pain in the side of her head was more acute. It became a battle to focus on the screen, as the words of the presenter became muffled beyond all recognition. What is wrong with this stupid computer?

There is nothing wrong with the machinery, Penelope. I could not say the same about you, however.

The words registered in her mind, but this was not her own inner voice. This voice she’d not heard this clearly since her last stroke.

You avoided this story all through your career! You had to wait for the very last moment, didn’t you?

Her focus shifted from the broadcast to search for the disembodied source, but she was distracted by the sight of her own body, which suddenly appeared a rather odd-looking vehicle that seemed quite apart from herself. The pain in her head released, but a pang of panicked recognition surged through Penelope’s body — she had experienced this odd disconnect from reality before. I’m having another stroke!

The writer knew about brain functions, having researched the brain for many of her tales, and rather extensively following her last stroke. The right side and the left side of the brain were responsible for entirely different functions. The right side of the brain was all about here and now, being in the moment and at one with all there is. This side of the brain thought in pictures and controlled the left half of the body. The left side of the brain controlled the right side of the body and thought in words. The left brain was that little voice in your head reminding you to pick up bread and milk on the way home, for it had everything to do with the past and the future, everything you’ve ever learned, everything you planned to do. It was this side of the brain causing Penelope grief, and if it was damaged she’d never write another tale. She would lose all sense of self and all the problems associated with her human individuality; and, if she survived again, she’d find herself living in a constant state of now.

With the remission of the headache, Penelope’s reasoning skills engaged, but she knew this was only a temporary reprieve. She had to page the nurse and get some medical attention before any permanent damage was done. The alert button was just to the side of where her right hand lay on the bed, but her right arm — being controlled by her left brain — did not respond. The energy that surged around her form was mesmerising to observe as it exuded from and was again re-absorbed by her being. This is the life force of creation. The interplay of energy was not limited to her own being either, for her body appeared to meld into the bedclothes, making it difficult to perceive where her person ended and her surrounds began. Everything was void and void was everything, she was an expansive, beautiful and an all-inspired being. Penelope allowed her sight to wander around the room, awash with the brilliant energy of atoms and molecules in a pirouette of motion, fashioning the construct of her current reality. But amid the oneness a being stood apart. The body of the entity was mutable, but Penelope saw the face as clearly as she’d seen it the last time she was at death’s door.

You’re not going to make it, old girl. The words were clear as a bell. Pain gripped her head once more, whereupon her perception was drawn back into her solid form and the little voice inside her head was screaming, Use your left hand to press the buzzer! Penelope swung her arm across her body and fell short of her aim, as it was not just her right arm that was defunct but the entire right side of her body and no matter how hard she stretched, she couldn’t get out of her own way to hit the button.

You and I both know you were the only writer ever likely to discover and pen this tale. But now you have handed the key over to someone who you obviously believe is braver than you.

No! I will finish this. It was my risk; Peter has no part in this. That’s what Penelope wanted to say but all that came out was a bunch of muffled sounds that made no sense whatsoever.

You know he wants a muse more than anything. Just as you did. You knew exactly what you were doing.

Again the pain ebbed enough for Penelope to regain her senses. She gripped hold of her alien limb around the wrist and directed it towards the button.

Why did I not tell Peter the truth sooner? She strained to edge closer to the buzzer, and the pain gripped her head once more as she continued to fall short of her mark. If I die, the story dies with me. It was comforting to know that her agent would take the unfinished manuscript from Peter and that would be that.

He won’t give up, he’s hungry . . . that’s why you picked him.

With one last effort her finger made contact with the button and the alert light lit up.

You are just another betrayal on my road to justice. Goodbye, Penelope. May God forgive you for your lies.

The intense pain ebbed, along with all the inner chatter and panic, and as Penelope was distracted by the beautiful energies flowing through the room once again, she quite forgot what she’d just been thinking. All her study of esoteric doctrine, the occult and the supernatural, had been in search of a state of being as beautiful, peaceful and as expansive as this. If she’d been capable of asking herself at this moment if her passion for writing was worth living for when compared to the expansive bliss she felt at present, the answer would have been a resounding NO!

A beautiful surge of coloured energy came into her line of sight and she was mesmerised by it, as it moved much more frantically than anything else in the room. But the energy made a disturbing sound, like a dog’s muffled bark. The beautiful display solidified into blurry, static objects, and the pain in her head amplified and drove her back to her bleak physical existence once again.

‘Ms Whitman,’ her hearing was acute once more, and the frenzied blur she’d been fascinated with was Nurse Henly, appearing very serious. ‘Can you say your name for me?’

Of course she couldn’t say her name, she was having a stroke, was this woman an idiot? When Penelope spoke out loud her words were mumbo-jumbo.

‘Lift your arms for me?’ Nurse Henly made a lifting motion with her own arms to demonstrate.

When Penelope attempted the same feat, the left arm went up, the right did not.

‘I’ll be right back.’ Nurse Henly moved swiftly out of view.

The pain behind her left eye felt like it was splitting her head open, but she had to try and stay with it and be coherent. She was thankful to have raised the alarm, yet she could not remember how she had.

The next thing she knew she was on the move and Nurse Henly was keeping pace beside her.

‘We’re just wheeling you across to surgery, Ms Whitman, try to stay with me.’

The pain was relentless and exhausting, although a shot in the arm had eased it a little. But she was so weary, she wanted to rest.

‘What’s the story you’re writing about?’ The nurse was trying to keep her focused in her left brain.

The query and her answer panicked Penelope, she could only hope that her agent carried out her will and kept Peter away from the story.

As her consciousness began to expand, way beyond the confines of her tiny, frail form, nothing of the micro-world that she was departing held any significance, she knew only that she would not be crammed back into that limited, painful form ever again.

Apart from being accompanied by the most beautiful woman in the room, Peter had imagined he’d be a rather low-key guest at this high-end literary affair. He was going on the assumption that nobody knew who he was. Everyone else inside this shindig seemed very familiar, as there was much kissing and handshaking going on over drinks in the bar of the venue. What he’d not counted on was how many other authors from Fabrizia Zenton’s stable would also be in attendance.

Gabrielle nearly died when she spotted one of her favourite paranormal romance writers, Denise Yin, who upon sighting them, excused herself from her conversation. ‘She’s coming over here!’ Gabrielle whispered discreetly, as she squeezed Peter’s arm in excitement.

‘Would I be addressing Mr Lemond and Miss Valdez?’ The rather zany, yet elegant woman held out her hand to Peter.

‘Peter,’ he shook her hand as she smiled and added an air kiss to his cheek in greeting. ‘And this is Gabrielle.’

‘Denise,’ she introduced herself, air kissing his date’s cheek also.

‘I know,’ Gabrielle was beaming with excitement. ‘I’ve read everything you’ve ever written.’

‘Then I love you already.’ She held both Gabrielle’s hands. ‘Call me Denny, all my friends do.’

‘But how do you know us?’

‘Fabrizia is my agent also, and Penelope was something of a mentor to me when I was starting out. So I volunteered to look out for you both this evening. And to introduce you, Peter, to all the most influential people who might be of benefit to a young author like yourself.’

‘Well that’s very generous of you, Denny.’ Peter felt a little put on the spot. ‘But I haven’t actually completed writing anything yet.’

‘I hadn’t either when Ms Whitman and I first met, but you will,’ said Denny assuredly, and Peter felt rather comforted by her admission. ‘All of Penelope’s prodigies have become bestselling authors in their own right. Well, except for that last little bitch, but we won’t talk about that.’

‘No pressure then,’ Peter joked his insecurities away.

‘None whatsoever,’ Denny emphasised. ‘Everyone is dying to meet the young man who inspired Penelope Whitman out of retirement.’

‘He certainly did do that.’ Gabrielle encouraged him to take the opportunity and run with it. ‘So who do you suggest we meet first?’

‘How about the President of HarperCollins Publishers?’ Denny suggested, and though Peter felt butterflies gathering in his gut, if he wanted to be part of this world, he had to learn the lay of the land sooner or later.

‘I would be honoured, and most appreciative,’ he replied.

Many stimulating conversations and a couple of drinks later, Peter was feeling far more relaxed. He’d never had the opportunity to talk writing with a bunch of writers of varying ages and genres before, and he didn’t imagine he’d get the chance again any time soon. It was exhilarating and inspiring to hear stories about their early careers, rejections and doubts; somehow it made his goal seem all the more achievable. He’d expected authors would be rather aloof and elitist, but in just the span of an hour, he felt like he’d known Denny and her colleagues for years! Fortunately his date didn’t need babysitting either, she and Denny were deep in an esoteric tête-à-tête; Gabrielle just cast him a glance and a smile every now and then, to let him know she was enjoying herself. Peter had never experienced such a sense of belonging — these were his people — and, more than ever, he was convinced that he was meant for the writing life.

Everyone, even those authors nominated for awards this evening, seemed reluctant to leave the lounge bar and head into the theatre for the ceremony.

‘We’ll have all night to chat after.’ Denny encouraged everyone to their feet. ‘You two must sit with us,’ she instructed.

‘If you say so.’ Peter was grateful for the invitation to hang around with the big kids, and he was not so nervous about speaking in front of these people, knowing they could completely empathise with his predicament, having stood in his shoes once themselves. Of course Penelope had known this; she’d known exactly what she was sending him into and he could not have been more thankful for her insistence now. This was turning out to be a truly magical evening, one he felt quite sure he’d still be recollecting when he was Penelope’s age.

Once all the year’s awards had been presented and the master of ceremonies began his tribute to Penelope, that was Peter’s cue to move down to the side of the stage.

‘Good luck,’ Gabrielle uttered as he stood, giving him two thumbs up.

‘I’ll live,’ Peter warranted, and made his way to his mark.

It was a thin line between nerves and excitement, but Peter felt he was leaning towards the latter as he was invited onto the stage to accept the award on Penelope’s behalf.

It was a daunting view from behind the microphone, and whether it was the drink or the adrenaline rush that allowed him to slip into observation mode, Peter was grateful to step outside himself, to disconnect from his nerves and just allow the words to spill from his mouth. ‘It is my great honour to accept this lifetime achievement award on Penelope Whitman’s behalf.’ He reached inside his jacket and produced the envelope. ‘Penelope asked if I would read the contents of this letter, which I was advised to keep sealed until this moment, but before I do, I would like to say that never was an award so deserved —’

A round of applause forced Peter to take pause for a moment and when it died down he continued. ‘Penelope Whitman has dedicated her life to her art, often to her own detriment. To her there is no differentiating between fantasy and reality. To know Penelope, is to become part of her worlds and to become one of her characters —’

Many people laughed, seemingly relating to his experience.

‘Hence I stand here before you at this great author’s bidding.’

There was another chuckle, as Peter opened the envelope. ‘Now to hear from the great author herself.’ He pulled out the page containing his speech, and was a little stunned and amused by what he read. ‘Three words,’ he advised, feeling how this went down would be all in the delivery. ‘“About bloody time!”’

There was a raucous round of laughter as Peter gathered his wits to complete his acceptance speech.

‘Did I mention Penelope is rather to the point these days?’ he added to the jovial mood. ‘But I feel very sure Penelope would like to compliment the International Society of Authors for their excellent taste in choosing to bestow this great honour upon her.’ Peter’s gaze fell on Gabrielle, who was appearing rather woeful compared with everyone else in the room. ‘And her fabulous agent, Fabrizia Zenton —’

Gabrielle had raised herself and was making haste towards the exit.

‘Gratitude to her publishers, peers, and all her faithful readers who have supported Penelope through her long and illustrious career. Thank you.’ Peter held high the award, as he exited quickly from the stage and made after Gabrielle.

‘That was fabulous,’ Denny told him on his way past.

‘What’s happened to Gabrielle?’ Peter was more concerned about that.

Denny looked around, only just realising she was missing. ‘I have no idea, I’m sorry.’

‘No problem.’ Peter hurried through the people patting him on the back and wanting to shake his hand, and obliging them all, however swiftly, he got to the far side of the huddle and made a break for the exit door.

The foyer of the theatre was all but abandoned, and Gabrielle was pacing back and forth, appearing distraught.

‘What’s the matter? The ceremony’s not completed yet,’ Peter asked as he joined her.

‘I left my phone at home, can I borrow yours?’ She gave the area the once-over with her eyes. ‘I thought they might have a public phone, but I guess there’s no such thing these days.’

‘What’s the emergency?’ He handed over the device, eager to get back to the event.

‘Maybe nothing, I don’t know.’

Peter watched her dial. ‘That’s the hospital number,’ he noted, increasingly concerned himself.

‘Hi Mandy, can I speak with Nurse Henly, please?’ She looked to Peter, her expression one of fearful apology.

‘You think something’s amiss with Penelope?’

Gabrielle held up her index finger to beg his patience. ‘Bec, it’s me, Gabby —’

As she listened to what Nurse Henly had to say, Gabrielle held her gut and tears began to well in her eyes. ‘We’re on our way — I know, but we’re coming anyway. Bye.’ She ended the call and handed the phone back to Peter. ‘Penelope’s had another stroke . . . I’m so sorry.’

The news was a bombshell, but they could process en route. ‘Let’s take a cab, it’ll be faster.’ Peter took Gabrielle’s hand, and with her free hand she grabbed up the train of her skirt, and they rushed to the exit to hail a taxi.

The rain was torrential outside, hindering their efforts to get to the hospital. As their cab manoeuvred through traffic, Peter and Gabrielle sat shocked, impatient and staring at the rainy night.

‘How did you know something was wrong with Penelope?’ Peter asked as they neared their destination, having had the chance to think over the night’s events.

‘I just had a feeling.’ She shrugged. ‘But I needed to confirm it.’

‘That was more than a feeling.’ Peter suspected that he wasn’t getting the complete truth. ‘You were nearly in tears before you even made the call.’

Gabrielle didn’t seem too keen to discuss it. ‘Grandma told me.’

‘But . . .’ Peter frowned, about to point out Grandma had not been present.

‘She’s dead, Peter,’ Gabrielle abruptly confessed. ‘I never knew her, but she still talks to me all the time. There, I said it. Yes, I still talk to my dead abuelita, happy?’ She looked out the window, rather than catch his reaction.

Peter was confused as to why Gabrielle was mad at him, when she had been the one doing the deceiving. But he had enough sense to know that this was really not the right moment to go there. ‘So you’re a psychic, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Only with Grandma.’ Her anger seemed to ebb; she was probably relieved he’d not confronted her over lying to him, still, clearly she felt guilty. ‘I would have told you the truth straight up, but you were freaked out enough about me having a psychic in the family, that —’

‘We’re here.’ Peter didn’t wish to discuss it. His first concern was for Penelope, and he needed out of the cab, even if it was raining.

When he reached the covered entrance way, Peter just kept going and didn’t look back. The more he thought about Gabrielle’s lies, the more angry he became. Those predictions about him being a professional writer were probably just psychic clap-trap to feed his ego and sucker him into an optimistic delusion!

As Peter entered the elevator en route to the emergency ward, he turned to see Gabrielle, heels and skirt in-hand, running down the corridor towards him. Should he hold the lift? Did he care how childish it would appear if he didn’t? He really wasn’t in the right frame of mind to discuss her deception at present. Did he care how upset Gabrielle would be if he didn’t hear her out now?

‘Please, Peter,’ she appealed, as the doors began to close.

‘Dammit,’ he uttered as he was compelled to press the button that opened the doors once again.

‘Thank you,’ Gabrielle panted, as she entered to join him, and the doors again closed. ‘Your reaction wasn’t the true reason I didn’t say something sooner, it was my own fear that you’d think I was crazy —’

‘You are crazy,’ he politely pointed out.

‘Crazier,’ she emphasised. ‘Grandma said —’

‘Ah!’ He held up a finger to silence her. ‘Respectfully, to you and your grandma, I am emotionally distraught at this moment, possibly a little drunk, and certainly not in my right mind. So I implore you . . . please leave this conversation for another day. Please,’ he added, as Gabrielle seemed not entirely disposed towards the request.

‘I understand,’ she conceded, as the lift door opened and Peter proceeded to the desk.

As all the nurses were busy he moved straight around behind the counter to a computer, to check the system for Penelope’s whereabouts and updates.

‘Sir!’ The head nurse approached to protest his brash behaviour. ‘You can’t just —’

Peter turned to glance at her. ‘Gayle, it’s me.’

‘Peter?’ She looked him up and down and grinned in approval. ‘You look like James bloody Bond! What are you —’ She caught her breath, having figured out the answer to her query.

‘Where’s Ms Whitman?’ Peter abandoned the computer to ask the nurse directly.

‘She’s been taken to cold storage,’ she advised, ‘she didn’t make it this time.’

‘Oh no,’ Gabrielle gasped, having caught the announcement also.

‘We’ve called next of kin,’ the nurse advised, ‘but —’

‘They don’t want to know,’ Peter guessed the punchline.

‘I believe her agent is returning from overseas to take care of the arrangements,’ the nurse explained, ahead of returning to her busy desk.

Peter wandered out from behind the station, and the woeful look on Gabrielle’s face only served to remind him that their lovely little sabbatical from reality had come to a crushing end.

‘Peter, I’m so sorry.’ She moved to embrace him, but he did not feel the need to be comforted right now.

‘Please, don’t.’ He backed away to avoid the sympathy. He needed to be alone, to process the loss of his dear friend and mentor, and his own writing aspirations.

He made for the elevator. Thankfully Gabrielle remained where she was. As the elevator doors parted and Peter stepped inside, it was plainly obvious to him that Gabrielle was upset also, but he felt so numb that he could not bring himself to comfort her.

‘This can’t be how it ends.’ She appeared so dishevelled from their first date, he had to wonder why she would wish it otherwise.

‘Clearly, fate is a far more formidable adversary than Penelope anticipated,’ he replied coolly, and was relieved when the elevator doors closed to end the conversation.

Privately, he regretted his conclusion. ‘Sorry, Penelope,’ he uttered, ‘I know you’d want me to have a little faith right now, but as far as I can see, I’ve got nothing without you.’ He reached in his pocket for his car keys and was forced to concede. ‘Except for a very fine car.’ The sentiment he’d felt the day she’d gifted him the Aston welled up, so he pushed the memory aside until he was home alone and could decompress.

If he truly created his own reality, as Penelope always insisted, then surely he must be some sort of sadist to have scheduled both the best and worst events of his life to unfold on the same day! Peter felt the universal force that Penelope was always praising was a son-of-a-bitch to have given him a little glimpse of his dream life, only to have the door leading there slammed in his face. But more than his writing future crumbling to dust, he would miss his sessions with Penelope, absorbing her wisdom, and hearing her recollections about the writing life. Selfish as it seemed, what pained him the most was that he would never get to see Nathaniel, Monique, Tyme, Julian and Em through their ordeal at 4 Kismet Way.

Upon waking the following day, reality felt harsh and his sensibilities tender. Peter recollected getting home, drinking the better half of a bottle of vodka, ranting about his misfortune, then face-planting on his bed in a heap.

As his mind back-tracked over yesterday’s events, he remembered Gabrielle standing before him, desperate to be consoled, and he felt ashamed by his reluctance to comply. He thought of Penelope on ice in a dark drawer somewhere, and the tragedy of that fact was devastating on so many levels that he wanted to roll right over and return to his oblivious dream state.

The phone ringing put all thought of escape on the back-burner. Peter hauled himself up to grab the item from his coat pocket and check the number, which his phone did not recognise. ‘Peter Lemond speaking.’

‘Peter, I’ve just landed. How are you coping, my darling?’ There was no mistaking the voice of Fabrizia Zenton, and she was calling him darling. ‘I would have called sooner, but I’ve been on a flight most of the night.’

‘Then, how are you coping, seems more the question?’ he allowed, not wanting to talk about himself.

‘Lots of coffee and tissues,’ she confessed, sounding amazingly alert and together. ‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’

‘Well I think we both know what the bad news is, so what’s the good news?’

‘The good news is that you did an amazing job at the awards last night, I could not be prouder of you, and I know Penelope would be proud too.’

‘I’m pleased to have been of service,’ Peter replied, determined to be gracious about relinquishing the project he’d been working so hard on. ‘I have a copy of the manuscript thus far, a file and recordings of the instalments, all of which I can have packed up for you by this afternoon.’

‘I’ll send a courier, if that suits?’

‘I would very much like to keep a copy purely for myself —’

‘Provided you don’t show anyone that file, I have no problem with that, as I’m sure you realise my lawyer will have a field day if you do.’

‘I understand.’

‘You are being very pragmatic about this, and I am very grateful, Peter.’

What choice did he have? He could be a complete arse about it but that would only burn his bridge with Fabrizia. ‘What will happen with the story now?’

‘Nothing, I suspect.’ She sounded sorry about that. ‘A story needs an ending to sell, unfortunately, but I am greatly looking forward to reading Penelope’s last hurrah nonetheless.’

‘I wish I hadn’t left her last night,’ Peter admitted. ‘I knew something was amiss with her —’

‘Peter! There are worse things than death, and non-compliance with Penelope Whitman’s will was one such thing.’

Her view nearly roused a smile from him. ‘You could be right.’

‘I’m rarely wrong. The funeral is on Thursday. I’ll see you there?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Let’s keep it hush-hush and away from social media.’

‘Most certainly,’ Peter assured her. ‘I won’t be talking to anyone.’

‘Speak then.’ The line went dead, and he ended the call.

No sooner had he thrown the phone aside than it was ringing again. He checked the number, and seeing it was Gabrielle, he switched the phone off. ‘I need a shower before I deal with any more drama. Actually, I’m going to take a whole day.’ He turned the phone back on to call personnel and cash in a few sick days.

It was later that morning, after reading through the manuscript that he was handing over to Fabrizia, that Peter recalled he still had an instalment of the tale that he had neither heard nor committed to paper. This manuscript may never see publication, but he wanted to deliver this manuscript over to the literary agent as completed as he could make it.

In his search through his jacket he also found Penelope’s house keys and the envelope containing instructions to obtain the research material from her house. He’d forgotten all about the treasure hunt, and he was a little disappointed, feeling that he should send the unopened note and keys back to Fabrizia along with the manuscript. Nonetheless, it was exciting and mortifying to realise that in the memory stick in his hand, he had one more window of opportunity to visit 4 Kismet Way and its inhabitants.

It was an honour and a privilege to know he was one of the few people who would ever get to read this story, making this last instalment the most prized treasure that would ever be in his possession — what millions of other readers wouldn’t give to be in his position. ‘No time to be sentimental about it, just finish the job.’ Peter took the memory stick to his home office to do exactly that.

In among the artwork of the storage room, Tyme and Monique found a case containing a cello, which had been buried behind several boxes. ‘Could Julian have seen this when you showed him the cupboard?’ Monique wondered.

‘He barely stepped inside the door, so I strongly doubt it.’ Tyme brushed dust from the books on the shelf.

‘Then this would seem to add some validation to Julian’s account.’ Monique closed the case once more to prevent the pristine-looking instrument from getting dusty. ‘Maybe Em was just multi-talented?’

‘These have no titles.’ Tyme pulled a few books from among the others. ‘They might be private journals, as they’re locked.’ She turned them around to show her accomplice.

‘We could just cut the straps to get into them?’ Monique suggested.

‘No need to deface them.’ Tyme held the beautiful leather-bound items to her heart. ‘Locks this old can be picked with a bobby pin.’ Tyme handed the dusty books to Monique and ran her hand through her short blonde do. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?’

‘I’m a dancer with a long mop of hair, what do you think?’ Monique handed the dusty books back and headed out into the studio to seek a bobby pin.

Back at the kitchen table, the locks proved not quite so easy to crack as expected. ‘I really don’t want to damage these. Maybe the keys are hidden in the cupboard too?’

The sound of the elevator moving drew their attention to the front door. ‘It’s pretty late,’ Monique noted, moving to the door and opening it in anticipation of the arrival.

The lift doors parted and there stood Nathaniel with far more luggage than he’d left with. ‘I’ve been given the boot.’ He hauled everything out of the lift into the entrance with him. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.’

‘That’s okay.’ Monique was stunned, but held the door open for Nathaniel to enter, and then closed it behind him.

‘Nat?’ Tyme put aside her lock picking to switch the kettle on. ‘Not you, too?’

‘What do you mean, “too”?’ Nathaniel off-loaded his baggage next to Tyme’s pile that was still by the door.

‘Julian has split with Sofie and opted out of the warehouse,’ Monique explained.

‘Why?’ Nathaniel was clearly baffled.

‘Why did he split with Sofie?’ Monique assumed.

‘No, why did he opt out of the warehouse?’ he clarified. ‘Not that I mind, I’ll gladly pay his portion to live here full-time. I still have to work, so you’d have plenty of time without me here, too.’

‘But what about your marriage, Nat?’ Monique was concerned about his lack of concern in that department.

Nat shrugged. ‘She threatened to go and find a partner who wants to live in the real world. I told her to go right ahead.’

‘What?’ Tyme was shocked, but Nathaniel held up a finger to indicate there was more.

‘Then she confessed she already had.’

Both Monique and Tyme gasped at the news.

‘That’s always the way, I find. People accuse you of the very crime they are committing themselves. And what’s more, it has been going on since before Jenna got pregnant.’

‘The baby might be his?’ Tyme blurted out her observation, and then appeared sorry for it.

‘Maybe, who knows?’ Nathaniel was exhausted. ‘All I know is that I’m not giving up my passion for a bunch of lies.’

‘So Em could have done you a favour?’ Monique noted. ‘And if you consider what a money-sucking little bitch Sofie was —’ she looked to Tyme ‘— Em might have done Julian a service also?’

Tyme nodded to confirm this.

‘Wait a minute.’ Nathaniel was perplexed again. ‘How could one of my characters have done Julian a favour?’

‘We have a house ghost.’ Tyme cut to the chase.

‘Bullshit!’ Nathaniel objected to the implication.

The sound of metal landing on the wooden kitchen table startled them all to look in that direction.

‘Holy shit!’ Tyme was the first to venture closer. ‘What the hell?’ She looked up to the ceiling in the hope of determining where the object had fallen from.

‘What is it?’ Monique grew impatient waiting for Tyme to recover from her awe, and spotting the ring of old keys she gasped and looked to Tyme. ‘Do you think they fit —?’

‘That would be spooky,’ Tyme granted.

‘This is already spooky!’ Nathaniel was staring at the ceiling. ‘I mean where the hell did they fall from?’ He looked back to the girls as Tyme retrieved the keys and slotted one deep into the lock of one of the books on the table. ‘What have you got there?’

‘We’re about to find out.’ Tyme turned the key and the lock popped open.

WRITER’S BLOCK

It was very tempting to curse the name of his deceased mentor for ending the session on that note. But he knew no matter how much she wrote, he’d still want more, until the story was done. Sadly, this story would never have an ending.

‘Well, I’ve done all I can for it.’ He slid the manuscript, memory sticks, keys and Penelope’s unopened note into a parcel bag, all ready to give to the courier.

As he awaited the parcel pick-up, Peter forced himself to eat something, all the while contemplating what the characters had found in those journals. Just one more scene and something of Em’s mystery would have been revealed.

‘I’m sure the enigma will haunt me the rest of my days!’ he commented out loud for the benefit of Penelope’s ghost — if there was such a thing! ‘Why did we not write non-fiction? At least I could have researched some answers.’

A few bites of a sandwich and a sip of coffee was all he could stomach. His gut was in knots as he eyed over the package he was to send off, tempted to rip it open and retrieve the key and note for Penelope’s treasure hunt.

A knock on the door ended his dilemma and Peter handed over Penelope’s manuscript to be delivered to her agent.

Although deflated by the missed opportunity, Peter felt proud of himself for not being tempted to undermine Fabrizia’s rights and Penelope’s will. If Penelope had wanted him to attempt to finish the story she wouldn’t have left all the rights to the book in Fabrizia’s hands.

Duty done, he was left drained. The thought of sleeping off the remainder of the day was an appealing one. As Peter headed into his bedroom, he was stunned to find Penelope’s note and keys still sitting on his bedside table.

‘What the —?’ He moved to retrieve them and ran to the window in the hope of delaying the courier, but the van pulled out of its parking spot and drove off down the road. ‘I distinctly remember packing these.’ Was the stress of the day affecting his mind?

This event was somewhat reminiscent of the incident he’d just read about in the last instalment of the story — coincidence? It seemed a rather uncanny one. Penelope had always insisted there was no such thing as coincidence, only synchronicity. Such instances were like signposts to your destiny if you recognised them as such. He’d assumed Penelope’s death would end his active participation in her fantasy world, but clearly for his character the mystery continued.

‘Is this your doing, Penelope?’ he asked out loud, still uneasy about the situation. ‘Do you want me to do this treasure hunt, is that it?’

No answer was forthcoming and Peter was rather grateful for that — he was freaked out enough already. He stared at the items in his hand, his memories of Penelope silently coaxing him on.

‘If you wanted to be a writer, Peter, why did you become a nurse?’

‘Because I didn’t realise what I was missing.’ But he did now. Still, he was unsure if he had the talent he needed to seriously pursue his ideal life.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your writerly instincts. All you need is a good story to follow and you’ll be on your way.’

If such a great writer would bestow such a high praise upon him, he owed it to Penelope to at least try and meet that expectation or what had it all been for?

His resolve to pursue the mystery hardened. ‘Even if I can’t finish writing the story, just some insight into the ending would maybe be enough for Fabrizia to hand the manuscript to one of her more seasoned writers to finish . . . maybe Denise Yin?’

With car keys and wallet in hand, Peter made for the front door. Upon opening it he found Gabrielle holding up a hand as she prepared to knock. ‘Peter! I’ve been trying to call you all day.’

‘I turned my phone off.’ He was a little frustrated to have his plans delayed. ‘I had some work to do for Fabrizia.’ Peter didn’t want Gabrielle to think he was avoiding her, even though he was.

‘Can we talk? Please.’

If he told her he was on his way out, she’d want to know where, and he wasn’t in the mood to explain. Hence, he reluctantly backed out of the doorway and allowed her inside. ‘If this is about last night, I know it was a disaster —’

‘Not your fault,’ she pointed out. ‘I should’ve told you sooner. But that said, my grandmother warned me that you were in a dilemma —’

‘I’m not.’ Peter was a little fast to deny her speculation.

‘She says you’re fibbing or deluded.’ Gabrielle appeared in no doubt about that.

‘Look,’ Peter didn’t want to offend, ‘how do you know you’re talking to your dead grandmother? How do you know you’re not just telling yourself what you want to hear?’

Gabrielle folded her arms. ‘Do you think I wanted to hear Penelope was having a stroke last night? And were we wrong about that?’

Several chills ran down Peter’s spine.

‘Except for my abuelita being deceased, everything else I’ve told you is completely true,’ she appealed.

‘You want me to forgive you for lying to me?’ Peter needed to cut to the chase. ‘No problem; I forgive you.’

‘Don’t patronise me!’ Gabrielle looked distinctly annoyed. ‘I don’t care about forgiveness, I care about you! Grandma said you needed guidance —’

‘I can’t imagine why.’ Peter was sceptical.

Gabrielle stood quietly for a moment listening to an inner voice and then looked to him wide-eyed. ‘She said if you are going to ally yourself with the disembodied, you’re going to need to know some basic psychic self-defence.’

‘What?’ Peter thought that was a bit extreme. ‘Do you really think Penelope would try to harm me?’

Gabrielle again consulted her grandmother’s spirit on the quiet and appeared alarmed. ‘She said you are not dealing with Penelope’s spirit any more, but another, more malignant spirit.’

Again, shivers down his spine. ‘Who am I dealing with?’

Gabrielle gasped. ‘Em, she says you’re dealing with Em.’

The suggestion frustrated Peter. ‘Em is a character, not a real person.’

She held up a finger to beg his patience. ‘According to Grandma that is only speculation on your part.’

Patience with this discourse was something Peter was fast running out of. ‘I appreciate your concern, but I’m not dealing with anything. I’m just trying to find some time alone to mourn a dear friend.’

‘I’m mourning her too,’ Gabrielle defended. ‘I worked for her ten times longer than you did, but that doesn’t prevent me from caring about you. Why are you so afraid to confide in me when I’ve laid my soul bare before you? Unless you still think I’m lying about Grandma?’

‘I . . . I . . .’ Peter didn’t know how to respond; he wasn’t sure what he thought, or how he felt. ‘I’m not good with trusting others, and I don’t want to bring you any trouble.’

‘Well I don’t want you landing in any trouble either, so let me watch your back.’ She placed her hands on her hips and rolled her eyes. ‘And Grandma too,’ she seemed compelled to add.

‘To tell you the truth, the idea of your grandma watching me and knowing everything about me, does freak me out ever so slightly,’ he admitted.

‘She’s not always around, just when I summon her, or when something really bad is happening, like last night,’ she explained, and then raised her gaze to the ceiling to listen. ‘She says she doesn’t know why you are so worried about her knowing about you as the worst thing you’ve ever done was cheat on your nursing entrance exam.’

‘What the hell?’ Peter was shocked to the core. ‘Nobody knows about that.’ Peter could feel his heart beating in his throat, and heat rising in his face — the claim gave Gabrielle’s talent more validity.

‘She said the girl you cheated out of a place who wanted it so badly . . .’ Gabrielle glanced at him and he nodded to confirm he knew of whom she spoke, ‘. . . discovered two days later that she was pregnant to a man she had met overseas and ended up leaving the country to marry him.’

‘Really?’ Peter felt a great weight lift from his being. ‘My heart was never really in it, but I wanted to appease my parents at the time.’

Gabrielle nodded. ‘Even so, the position was always meant to be yours, so that you could follow your path to here and now.’

‘I’ve spent years feeling guilty about that,’ he realised.

‘So you see, having a family ghost around is not entirely without benefit. Now tell me, what are you up to?’

‘Well, can’t Grandma tell you?’ Peter challenged.

‘She says that she’s not a snitch.’

‘What do you mean? She just told you the worst thing I’ve ever done!’

‘But that’s in your past,’ Gabrielle justified on her grandma’s behalf. ‘In the present, it’s up to you to tell me or not.’

‘Finally, Grandma’s on my side,’ Peter teased.

‘We are both on your side.’

Clearly, she was not taking no for an answer, and if Penelope had meant for him to do this alone, she wouldn’t have suggested that he take Gabrielle along with him after the awards dinner. ‘It’s the treasure hunt.’

Gabrielle’s eyes opened wide with excitement. ‘I’d forgotten all about that.’

‘I sent the keys and note with the manuscript to Fabrizia an hour ago.’ Peter outlined his predicament.

‘Aw . . . what?’ Gabrielle was clearly deflated by the news.

‘And then found them in my room after the courier left.’ He produced the said items and Gabrielle’s spirits seemed to soar once more, yet she maintained some reserve.

‘Just like the story. Whoa! This is what Grandma was talking about?’ Gabrielle was as perplexed as Peter now. ‘She thinks this was Em’s doing and not Penelope’s.’

‘Why are you asking me?’ Peter wondered.

Gabrielle conceded his point. ‘Abuelita? Grandma? She’s gone.’

‘Got her way, so now she’s happy,’ Peter reckoned.

‘That sounds about right,’ Gabrielle concurred. ‘So . . . we’re going to Penelope’s.’

‘Well I was.’ Peter shrugged only prepared to speak for himself.

‘We are,’ Gabrielle corrected and snatched the note and keys from his possession. ‘You drive,’ she instructed with a smile.

Penelope’s house would have been more accurately described as an estate. Tall sandstone walls surrounded the perimeter, complete with a large set of security gates out front.

‘Shall we try to climb the wall?’ Peter posed, as they sat in the car staring at the locked gates before them.

Gabrielle checked the keys for a remote, but there were only regular keys. ‘Let’s try the direct, lawful approach first, shall we?’ She climbed out of the car and walked around to the security intercom.

‘What are you going to say?’ Peter was curious as she pushed the button to alert security, but Gabrielle held a finger to her lips to request his silence.

‘Whitman estate, can I help you?’ It was a woman’s voice, and she sounded quite old.

‘Hello, I have a letter here from Ms Whitman —’

‘Sorry, you’ll have to speak up.’ The voice insisted. ‘Are you the people Ms Whitman’s lawyer said to expect?’

Gabrielle looked to Peter to seek his approval to lie.

He nodded, ahead of whispering, ‘If you try and explain she won’t hear you anyway?’

‘What was that? Please speak up, I’m very hard of hearing.’

‘Ah yes, that is correct,’ Gabrielle confirmed.

‘One moment. I’ll open the gates.’

‘Thank you!’ they both yelled in response, as Gabrielle headed back around the car and climbed into her seat.

‘What if the real people show?’ Peter uttered to his accomplice.

‘We’ll just show them Penelope’s letter and plead misunderstanding.’ She shrugged as the gates parted and they proceeded down the long driveway towards the large roundabout at the end.

‘Perhaps we should open the letter and find out if Penelope’s written anything more than three words this time?’ Peter hadn’t expected to be met by anyone at the house and had planned on reading the communication upon arrival.

‘Good call.’ Gabrielle did the honours, pulling out another sealed envelope. ‘Open in the library.’ She showed him the instruction written on the front of the missive.

‘Okay,’ Peter relented. ‘We’ll play this Penelope’s way.’

By the time they parked the car and scaled the few stairs of the front pillared porch, the front door had been opened and an elderly couple stood in the void, waiting to greet them.

‘Mr Lemond, Miss Valdez?’ the gentleman assumed and stunned them both.

‘Yes, that’s right,’ Peter confirmed.

‘You are lucky you caught us. We were expecting you yesterday,’ he said, as his expression turned sombre. ‘Sad events delayed you, I understand. But everything is still as Ms Whitman instructed. Please, come in.’

‘Thank you.’ Peter stepped into the foyer along with Gabrielle, admiring its grandeur.

‘I am Wilfred Eddington and this is my wife, Thelma, we are the caretakers of the Whitman estate. We were just leaving for the day, but I understand you have a key?’

‘We do.’ Gabrielle held it up.

‘Very good,’ Wilfred said. ‘Would you like me to show you around —?’

‘I’m sure we can manage, thank you, Wilfred,’ Peter declined, and gave them their leave. ‘You and Thelma have a lovely evening.’

‘There’s food in the kitchen,’ Thelma advised.

‘And plenty of wood by the fires, should you need it,’ Wilfred added. ‘Make yourselves at home, you are Ms Whitman’s guests.’ The delivery of this message near reduced the old man to tears. ‘God rest her precious soul.’

‘It is a tragedy,’ Peter agreed, ‘but not one that was entirely unexpected.’

‘No, that’s quite true.’ Wilfred looked to his wife, who was dabbing tears from her eyes with a tissue. ‘We thought we had lost her five years ago, we were lucky to have had the extra years in her service.’

Thelma forced a smile, appearing mildly consoled by the fact.

‘We shall all miss her.’ Gabrielle added her condolences to the outpouring.

‘You know about the funeral I assume?’ Wilfred checked.

‘We do,’ Peter confirmed. ‘Fabrizia Zenton informed me.’

‘Well, we’ll see you there.’ Wilfred placed an arm around his wife.

‘We’ll be sure to lock up when we leave.’ Peter saw the old couple to the door.

‘The beds are made if you require them,’ Thelma advised and waved.

‘We won’t be back until after the funeral.’ Wilfred paused upon exiting the front door, to look over the exterior. ‘I expect they’ll need the place all spick and span for auction.’ He gave a heavy sigh but roused a smile. ‘The gates will open automatically for you to exit, and lock behind you. A remote is by the phone in the kitchen, along with our phone number, should you have any queries.’ He waved and accompanied his wife down the stairs.

‘Many thanks.’ Peter watched them walk up the drive, arm-inarm.

‘Makes you wonder how many times they’ve done that walk together,’ Gabrielle voiced his exact thought.

‘Well clearly your grandma isn’t here or we would have got their entire life story.’ Peter closed the doors, and Gabrielle was amused.

‘I must say you are handling the fact of Grandma rather well.’

‘Well I can hardly hold it against you when I have a fictional character leaving keys in my bedroom.’ Peter turned his attention to the beautiful manor house around them. ‘I’ll bet this place saw some amazing parties in its time.’

‘No doubt of that.’ Gabrielle peered through the first open door. ‘Lovely sitting room.’

‘I’m guessing the library is down here somewhere.’ Peter proceeded past the grand stairway on the opposite side of the foyer. ‘If that’s the sitting room, next to it is probably the dining room.’ Peter pointed to the next doorway on Gabrielle’s side of the foyer. ‘So on this side, I’d say first door is the lounge . . .’ He peered in the first door to find he was correct. ‘So this door —’ he moved to the next door along on his side of the foyer ‘— will lead to the . . .’ He opened the door as Gabrielle caught him up. ‘Library,’ he announced as they entered the room, its walls lined with shelves of books on three sides. On the free wall were two large bay windows with French doors in between that led outside. One of the bay windows had a cushioned seat and in the other was a desk and chair.

‘This must be where Penelope wrote all her novels.’ Gabrielle moved to the French doors, which opened onto a covered patio with a large pool, bar area and garden. ‘Wow!’

‘Wow indeed!’ Peter followed her outside.

Wilfred and his wife obviously took great care of this property; the place was immaculate, and a spectacular sight at sunset.

‘No wonder Penelope mourned leaving this place.’ Peter gazed around, taking a deep breath of air that was filled with floral scents. ‘I’d never leave!’

‘I like that it has a very old-world feel about it.’ Gabrielle wandered over and placed her hand on a large stone gargoyle water feature. ‘It’s like stepping back in time into an opulent fairy tale. I’d rather expected something that was kind of retro fifties chic. But this is just magical!’

‘Considering Penelope’s taste in cars, I thought her house would not be too clichéd.’ Peter smiled, impressed by the decor.

‘I can’t wait to see the bathroom!’ Gabrielle said.

‘The bathroom?’ Peter thought the comment rather odd.

‘My favourite room in any house,’ Gabrielle enlightened him. ‘Is there anything better than a long soak in a beautiful tub?’

Peter raised both eyebrows and grinned as he considered. ‘I can think of a few things.’

‘One does not have to soak alone,’ Gabrielle retorted, in a manner that sounded rather like an invitation. ‘But first things first.’ She handed the envelope back to Peter. ‘You should do the honours.’

Peter was stunned for a second — it had been an invitation. ‘Okay, let’s do this.’ He tore open the envelope, and retrieved the missive, which again was very minimalist.

‘What does it say?’ Gabrielle queried upon noting his scowl.

‘It says, H-one-o-seven, A-four-seven, S-two-one. Then she’s written, safe — my one true love.’

‘And that’s it?’ Gabrielle accepted the note from him to check for herself as Peter wandered back into the library.

Upon closer inspection of the shelves, he noted the books were indexed in sections and coded. ‘Give me that first code again.’

‘H-one-o-seven.’ Gabrielle approached, intrigued.

‘H for . . .’ He inspected the titles of each section. ‘History.’ He followed the numbers on the book spines, until he came to H-107. ‘Life between the Wars — A Social History.’ He pulled the said book from the shelf, and as he did, he heard the sound of a metal click inside the end wall. ‘Did you hear that?’

Gabrielle nodded. ‘Maybe there’s a rat in the stud wall?’

‘That didn’t sound like a rat . . . more like a mechanism.’ Peter reached into the void from where he’d drawn the book to find a little lever. When he pressed the lever he heard another click, and when he let it go the click repeated. ‘Interesting,’ Peter smiled, looking to Gabrielle.

‘Maybe finding the books unlocks the safe,’ they both concluded at once, rather inspired by the prospect.

‘I was wondering how we were going to find the safe.’ Peter placed the first book on the central coffee table. ‘I don’t know that Wilfred would feel at liberty to direct us.’

‘The books may have nothing to do with the project,’ Gabrielle posed.

‘I wouldn’t assume anything at this point. Very little about Penelope is random,’ Peter advised. ‘Next number?’

‘A-four-seven,’ she read.

‘A for Art.’ Peter considered that one was easy, and moved to the Art section to find A-47. ‘Art Adrift: A Crisis in Painting, 1920–1940 and Beyond.’ He pulled the book and once again a metal clicking sound resonated from within the end wall, although in a different spot.

‘Goodness, I think you’re right, we’re unlocking something.’ Gabrielle was very excited.

Peter placed the second book by the first, unable to wipe the smile from his face. He was eager to see what happened when he pulled out the last reference book, but noted a common thread between the two on the table. ‘These books are both about the same era.’

‘Well, Penelope would have been a little girl then . . . perhaps they have sentimental value?’

Peter wasn’t too sure about that. ‘These are not really the kind of books a little girl would be reading. If you ask me, she’s picked the most boring books she could think of to ensure they were never pulled from the shelf by accident.’

‘Maybe the last one will shed some more light on her choices?’ Gabrielle referred to the missive. ‘S-two-one. S for Science.’ She had already guessed this one.

Happily, Peter needed to employ the sliding ladder to reach this book, and was delighted to push off and ride it along the wall to the science section.

‘I don’t think it was built for sport.’

‘I’ve always wanted to do that,’ Peter justified. ‘It actually has really good rollers.’

‘If you say so.’ Gabrielle wore an unimpressed grin. ‘S-two-one?’ She encouraged him to get on with it.

Peter climbed to the top to read the title. ‘How Many Sexes Are There?’ Both he and Gabrielle burst out laughing at once.

‘And you said she wasn’t random.’

Peter shrugged, feeling this book had no clear connection to the first two. ‘I stand corrected.’ He pulled out the book in question, and the click was succeeded by the sound of a mechanism engaging. Peter slid down the ladder and backed away from the wall to watch what was happening.

An entire section of the bookcase retracted back into the wall and then slid behind the bookcase alongside it to reveal the safe.

‘Oh my God! This is awesome!’ Gabrielle approached and grabbed Peter’s arm. ‘Now I really do feel like a character in one of Penelope’s books.’

Peter noted the safe lock appeared rather unusual and approached to investigate further. ‘It’s an alphabetical lock.’

‘So obviously the name of Penelope’s one true love is the key to the combination,’ Gabrielle assumed. ‘Penelope didn’t talk about her love life much. Perhaps she meant her husband, what was his name?’

‘I have no idea.’ Peter scratched his head. ‘She assumed I’d know this.’ His stomach grumbled and he realised he was starving.

‘Goodness!’ Gabrielle acknowledged it too.

‘I haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours.’ And he had to admit it was starting to affect his brain function.

‘Thelma said there’s food in the kitchen, shall we go and investigate? It’s not like we’re on a time schedule here.’

It was a good call. Peter retreated to place the third book on the coffee table with the others, and then followed Gabrielle to the door.

‘There must be some photo albums or something around here somewhere. I don’t think she would have given us the clue without knowing we could solve it.’

‘If this treasure hunt had gone as planned, we could have just called her for a clue,’ Gabrielle pointed out. ‘Maybe that’s what she envisioned?’

‘Hold on.’ Peter did an about-face to head back into the library, and Gabrielle waylaid him. ‘Maybe she left a clue in one of the books?’

‘A good thought,’ Gabrielle awarded, but did not release him. ‘Food first,’ she instructed.

As his stomach again rumbled in agreement, Peter allowed Gabrielle to guide him deeper into the house.

The kitchen was fully stocked, and they were spoilt for choice — it appeared as if Penelope had expected them to have an extended stay in the house. To Peter’s mind this was typical of the scheming, presumptuous and extremely sweet lady that Penelope had been. She really had been rooting for him on the romance front, and Peter was a little sorry that he did not live up to the seductive standards of Penelope’s usual leading men. Still, Gabrielle hadn’t given up on him, so perhaps there was hope yet?

Peter felt he might devour his own hand, if forced to wait for food to heat up, so they opted for sandwiches, which they ate in the kitchen so as not to make work for Mrs Eddington.

‘If my phone wasn’t out of charge, I could look up Penelope’s romantic history online,’ Peter considered as they strolled back towards the library.

‘It’s a good thing mine’s fully charged and I have my charger in my bag,’ Gabrielle confessed with a grin.

Peter was thrilled to hear it. ‘Seriously?’

She nodded.

He was about to say ‘I could kiss you’, but decided to just go right ahead and do that.

Although taken by surprise, Gabrielle melted against him, welcoming his advances, and the kiss was longer and steamier than expected.

‘Now,’ said Peter, in the wake of the blissful side-track. ‘What were we doing again . . . looking for the bathroom?’

Gabrielle smiled at the implication. ‘I was saving the day.’ She held up her phone.

‘Ah yes.’ He let her go and, taking the device from her, proceeded into the library. ‘Let’s research!’

After they had tried the name of Penelope’s husband, all her known boyfriends, her children, some of her lead characters and a few of her pets, Peter felt in his gut they were heading in the wrong direction. ‘She expected I would know this, without any research.’

‘What about Fabrizia?’ Gabrielle suggested and the answer dawned on Peter, compelling him to rise from the lounge where they were brainstorming.

‘I must be daft! Or possibly very tired.’ He approached the safe once more. ‘It’s that simple! I’ve got this.’

‘You’ve got what?’

‘W, R, I, T, I, N, G,’ he spelt out the combination, and the safe clicked open. ‘Ha-ha!’ Peter laughed with glee, as Gabrielle ran over to crash hug him and kiss his cheek.

‘Well done! Of course!’

Inside the safe was a stack of cash, jewellery and papers in files, but it was the two old books that held Peter’s attention. ‘No titles on the spines,’ he noted as he pulled them from their place of safekeeping, and feeling these were the treasure he was here for, he closed and locked the safe once more.

‘I’m getting chills.’ Gabrielle crossed her arms and hugged herself. ‘It’s like we are just picking up where the story left off.’

That observation was giving Peter chills too.

Just as described in Penelope’s tale, the books were finely bound in leather, and locked closed.

‘I’m just waiting for the keys to fall from the roof,’ Peter joked.

‘I believe they already did,’ Gabrielle said, moving to retrieve Penelope’s set of keys from the coffee table as Peter followed with the books. ‘There are a couple of tiny old ones here, I thought they must be for a jewellery box or something.’ She detached the keys in question and handed them to Peter as they both took a seat.

Peter refrained from trying the keys to take in the surreal moment. ‘Do you think this is what they mean when they say put yourself in the character’s shoes?’

Gabrielle noted his delay to unlock the treasure. ‘Do you think these belong to Em?’

Peter was getting chills in waves now, and an especially large wave rushed over him when one of the keys fit into the tidier of the two volumes. ‘We’re about to find out,’ he quoted Tyme’s last words in the tale and turned the key in the lock to open it.

It was an old journal, penned by a fellow by the name of Henry Chesterfield, who introduced himself in the first entry as the butler to a grand household around the turn of last century.

‘Well, that’s a little anti-climactic.’ Gabrielle was deflated. ‘What does this guy have to do with anything?’

‘It’s from around the same time period as the first two books we pulled from the shelf.’ Peter glanced quickly over the rather unremarkable first page, and then closed it carefully and placed it aside. The other untitled journal did not have beautiful even gold-bordered pages like the first, and when unlocked it disclosed a collection of correspondence that had been bound together into one volume. ‘June 4 1927. Dearest brother, all goes well for us on tour, we have received standing ovations in every city.’

‘But whose letters are they?’ Gabrielle was eager to cut to the punchline.

‘Wait.’ Peter turned the pages carefully until he found the signatory. ‘Your loving sister, Emeline.’ He looked to Gabrielle, stunned.

‘Em,’ she concurred. ‘So Em was a woman!’

‘It seems so,’ he nodded, flicking through the mass of letters. ‘Hold on. Here is one. To my dear sister,’ he turned the page to read, ‘from Emanuel.’

‘Another Em! There were two of them?’ Gabrielle felt that explained a great deal. ‘Maybe that’s why the housemates couldn’t tell whether their ghost was male or female?’

‘I won’t know for sure until I sit down and read this lot.’ Peter was dying to do just that.

‘I can take a hint.’ Gabrielle rose, sounding a little put off.

‘It can wait,’ Peter reluctantly closed the book.

‘No, it’s fine,’ Gabrielle assured him. ‘You go ahead and read. I’ll go and find that bathroom.’ She smiled sweetly, turned and left the room.

That was definitely an invitation, which unlike his reading quest, would be open for a short time only. Peter stood and pursued Gabrielle out into the foyer, and she was halfway up the staircase by the time he got there. ‘Come to think of it, I am mighty curious to see what that bathroom looks like myself.’

Gabrielle laughed, delighted by his pursuit, and she sped up her ascent.

A voice, like an angel, singing harmonies with no words. The haunting tone of the cello beckons from a long hallway of closed doors. Closer now to the source of the music, the door at the end of the corridor opens and there a young woman sits playing her alluring composition. The free-spirited mastery of her instrument inspires, transporting the psyche to the transcendental realm of pure creation. So confident, so beautiful, she plays her final stroke and looking up whispers. ‘Inwards, we move closer.’

Peter awoke with a start, a cold sweat of panic upon him as he gasped for breath. It took a moment to realise he was in one of Penelope’s guest rooms, and looking aside he found Gabrielle fast asleep. The sight of her was calming and solidified him in his present reality. Just a dream. The fact he hadn’t woken his new companion came as something of a relief as well. He eased out of bed quietly and tip-toed across the hallway towards the main bathroom that had helped facilitate their budding romance.

Some cold water to his face delivered Peter to a fully conscious state. He didn’t normally remember much of his dreams, but the one he’d just had was crystal clear in his mind and he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d just met the female Em. He was disturbed by the encounter as dreaming of this particular female had caused both the males in Penelope’s story to end up estranged from their lovers — this was why he was pleased that he’d not woken Gabrielle. He certainly didn’t want his first promising relationship in years being affected by his pursuit of this story. Best to keep such dreams to himself — provided Gabrielle’s grandmother didn’t disclose his predicament.

‘Inwards, we move closer.’

His recall of Em’s message gave him chills as he wondered at its meaning. ‘It doesn’t mean anything. It’s psychosomatic.’

The sun had yet to rise, but Peter doubted he’d be able to get back to sleep. So, retrieving his clothes quietly from the bedroom, he dressed in the hallway and headed down to the library.

Although they had locked the safe, it was still exposed to the room. Hence, in reverse order, Peter went about replacing whatever book was next to those he’d removed, onto vacated spaces to re-engage the levers. Upon deactivating all three switches, the protective bookcase came out of hiding and slid back in between the others to hide the vault behind a solid wall of books once more. ‘That’s just too cool.’

Dying though he was to sit down and read through the journals, Peter felt there was little point in getting engrossed as the funeral was today. He wanted to wait for a day when he could give the research his fullest attention — at least that’s what he told himself. The truth was his dream was still giving him shivers and not in a good way. Gabrielle’s grandmother had described Em’s spirit as malignant, but perhaps she was referring to the brother, Emanuel? The woman he’d seen in his dream seemed anything but malefic. Grandma Valdez had also warned that he’d have to step out of his comfort zone to find his story, and this scenario was certainly that. Another chill ran through him. Gabrielle’s psychic link with her deceased ancestor was proving remarkably accurate, but it warmed him to consider that they had also predicted great success with his first novel.

‘Not if I don’t make the time to seriously sit down and sink into this.’ He gazed at the pile of books with ravenous need. In his gut, excitement welled as the notion to quit nursing and pursue this story full-time fast turned into a resolution. ‘I have to do this.’ He had never felt so compelled. He had some savings and a little inheritance from his parents; there would probably never be a better time for him to chase his goal and he was ecstatically excited about the revelation. ‘If I want to be a full-time writer, I had bloody well better start writing.’

Tears welled in his eyes, as his joy and relief were overwhelming. ‘I get it, Penelope,’ he uttered, feeling as if his heart was going to implode in his chest. ‘I have found my passion.’ A tear escaped his eye and Peter brushed it from his cheek, the moment was really too celebratory for tears. The decision sat well with him. There was no doubt in Peter’s mind that he would look back on this moment as the defining choice that changed his life. If he had to move into a bedsit to do it, it didn’t matter, all he needed was his computer and a kettle, and life would be sweet.

Journals aside, Peter looked to the other three books he’d pulled from the shelves that he planned to abscond with also. He was browsing through the book on early twentieth century art, when a piece of paper flicked from the pages and floated down to settle on the carpet.

Peter fetched it up and when he flipped it over he found it was an old black and white photograph of four young people looking chic. By their dress, Peter guessed the picture was taken in the 1950s.

‘Hang on.’ He scrutinised the faded picture under the lamplight; one of the women in the photograph was a very young Penelope Whitman. She was seated on one end of a chaise longue, pen in one hand, notebook and cigarette in the other. Another woman was lying at the opposite end of the lounge, her knees bent up towards the ceiling, showing off the ballet slippers on her feet. Behind where the ballerina was seated a suave, Italian-looking fellow was leaning over the lounge, paint brush in hand, pretending to paint her, as she gazed up at him adoringly. Beside the Italian was a cool-looking guy with a saxophone in one hand and a drink in the other.

‘Holy shit!’ Pangs of realisation and excitement shot heat through Peter’s body in ever deepening waves as he recognised the characters of 4 Kismet Way.

RESEARCH

The sunny day was in distinct contrast to the mood of the occasion. Penelope had chosen to be cremated privately and have a memorial service held in a spectacular reserve not far from her house. Chairs of white were laid out in neat rows, and beautiful bright flowers were woven all through the gazebo where the microphone was positioned. Gabrielle had received the memo this morning about wearing colour and not black, as had everyone by the look of it, for it appeared more as if the crowd were descending upon a wedding than a wake.

‘Penelope would have loved this, don’t you think? All her friends in one place?’

Peter looked to the left to find it was Denise Yin who had taken hold of his free arm to walk with himself and Gabrielle.

‘I do,’ he agreed. ‘And she certainly took care of the weather for us.’

‘We never got to catch up after the awards.’ Denise appeared regretful about that. ‘I have a bunch of writer friends who all do dinner every month or so; you should come,’ she suggested, as other guests waved her over. ‘I’ll give you a call.’

‘Absolutely,’ Peter assured her, and with a smile of delight she moved onto her next round of greetings. He was rather excited about that invitation, and already couldn’t wait.

‘I have to say this is not quite the sombre affair I’d imagined.’ Gabrielle sounded relieved about that. ‘Do you think her family will come?’

‘If they wouldn’t come to her deathbed, I doubt they’ll come to her funeral.’

The day proved Peter right about that.

It was Fabrizia who had made all the arrangements; Penelope had made her executor of her estate. Still, Penelope had been dearly loved by her friends, colleagues and peers, and it was rather cathartic to hear those who knew her well during her expansive career telling stories of the good times they’d shared with her. After all the invited speakers had said their piece, the microphone was left open to anyone at the gathering who wanted to say a few words.

At first it seemed like no one was going to take up the offer, and Gabrielle gave Peter a nudge to suggest he should get up. But Peter didn’t feel he’d really known the author long enough to speak at her funeral.

‘You, sir.’ Fabrizia spotted a hand in the crowd, and waited patiently for the old fellow to make his way to the platform with the aid of a walking stick. He was small of frame, and even in younger days would not have been a tall man. He wore a golf cap over his depleting grey hair, which had most likely been fair in his prime.

He didn’t bother climbing the gazebo stairs, and Fabrizia took the microphone to him. ‘My name is Billy Boyle, and I knew Penelope way back when she was still aspiring to write her first book.’

There was a sigh of awe from the audience as none of the previous speakers had harked back so far in Penelope’s life.

‘She was the life of the party then, I can tell you!’ He paused to allow the rumble of amusement to pass. ‘Well, we all were, really. A bunch of starving artists, high on art and life . . . and just about anything else we could get our hands on.’ He raised a finger to his lips, urging those present to keep that bit quiet. ‘But Pen lit up a room with her presence, and any conversation with her wit and insight. She made us consider the greater mysteries of being a spiritual consciousness trapped in a human form. I was just a boozy sax player back then, I had no idea what Pen was on about half the time . . .’ He hammed up the fact to lighten the mood.

There were those heated pangs of shock again. I couldn’t be that lucky. Peter reached into his pocket to retrieve the photo, disappointed to realise he’d left it in his other jacket. But he really didn’t need to reference the image — he was close to certain that he’d found the musician from Penelope’s story.

Synchronicity happens more frequently when you are on the right path. That’s what Penelope believed. But of course, first you had to commit to that path. Peter hadn’t even told anyone about his decision to leave nursing and pursue writing, and yet here was another important aspect of his chosen task, just thrown into his path right on cue. The fact was blowing his mind and by the time his attention turned back into the service, Billy Boyle was stepping down and Fabrizia was saying a few closing words before she directed everyone towards the bar and refreshments in the grand marquee that had been erected on-site.

‘I need to speak with Mr Boyle,’ Peter uttered aside to Gabrielle, as they rose from their seats.

‘That’s fine.’ Gabrielle pointed over her shoulder. ‘I’ve just spotted a few of the nurses —’

Peter kissed her cheek and took off. ‘I’ll be back.’ He spotted Mr Boyle heading around the outside of the marquee and made haste to pursue him.

‘Mr Lemond?’ Peter was waylaid when he noticed Fabrizia summoning him towards her. He was torn for a moment, but if this powerful woman was requesting his attention he was not about to ignore her.

‘Ms Zenton.’ He diverted from his course to address her.

‘Call me Fabrizia, I detest formality.’ She smiled warmly.

‘Then call me Peter, Fabrizia,’ he obliged her. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘I read the manuscript.’

‘And?’ Peter prompted her to speak her mind, even if it was unfavourable.

‘And . . . I want the ending!’ She frowned, disappointed. ‘It’s a crying shame for us both, I’m so sorry.’

‘So you like it!’ Peter ventured to assume.

‘I loved it!’ She sounded very genuine. ‘I hope that you plan to do something with what Penelope taught you?’

‘Well . . .’ Peter confessed. ‘I decided this morning that I’m going to quit my job, and do exactly that.’

‘Oh my goodness!’ Fabrizia emphasised in a jovial fashion. ‘Do you have an idea for your first novel?’

‘Actually,’ Peter considered, ‘I may have to ask your permission to do this, but I’d like to base my novel around the life of the ghost in 4 Kismet Way.’

‘What a fascinating idea,’ Fabrizia mused.

‘So it would be okay with you, if I did that?’ Peter’s excitement welled, but he tried to contain it given this was supposed to be a solemn occasion.

‘Okay?’ she scoffed. ‘Peter, this could be the default ending for the book! It’s absolutely brilliant!’

‘Really?’ He hadn’t dared consider that he’d be allowed to have a stab at writing the conclusion.

‘Do you think you can do it?’ Fabrizia was far more interested in his pitch than he could possibly have imagined.

‘I’m going to give it my best shot.’ He felt suddenly shell-shocked in realising that, in complete contrast to the day Penelope had died, her memorial, which should have been one of the worst days of his life, was turning out to be the best day ever.

‘It would be on the proviso that I will be representing you and the work, naturally, as I own the rights on the other half and the character in question.’ Fabrizia shifted into business mode.

‘Are you saying you’ll be my agent?’ Peter couldn’t help but gape in astonishment at that prospect.

‘And partner on this one, if you’ll have me,’ she allowed graciously.

‘Are you kidding? Having you as my agent would be entirely my honour.’ Peter held a hand to his heart, not to be endearing, but because it felt as if it was about to pound a hole right through his chest.

‘Then welcome to the stable, kiddo,’ she served him a wink, and pulled a business card from the inside pocket of her designer coat and handed it to him. ‘If you need help with anything, plot lines, legal advice, personal counselling,’ she joked about the extent of her services. ‘Call me any time, day or night.’

‘But how shall I pay you?’ Peter had no clue how having an agent worked.

‘Fifteen per cent when I land you a publishing deal.’ She set all his fears to rest. ‘Until then, you get all of this free of charge. All you have to worry about is nailing the story.’

‘Wow.’ Peter held his head, as it felt like it was spinning. ‘You’ve just made my lifetime dream entirely possible!’

Fabrizia smiled warmly, seeming glad of that. ‘Well, now you know, fairy godmothers really do exist.’ She held out a hand to him, and Peter was so excited about their arrangement that he kissed it.

‘Thank you, so much.’ Peter was overwhelmed by her encouragement. ‘Penelope was the first person who ever really made me take my passion seriously, and now you taking me seriously is such a vindication and just the impetus I’ve needed.’

‘The door is wide open.’ She understood his meaning perfectly well. ‘Now all you have to do is step through it.’

‘I should let you return to the other guests.’ Peter could see people hanging at the periphery of their conversation, waiting for their chance to speak with the hostess.

‘Let them wait, I haven’t finished with you yet.’ Fabrizia took his arm to walk away from the marquee and to speak more privately with him. ‘The reading of the will is taking place tomorrow and I need you there.’

‘Did Ms Whitman leave me something?’ Peter found the request curious.

‘Quite possibly.’ Fabrizia raised both brows. ‘I’ll have my secretary send over the address.’

Peter was a little perplexed by the answer, knowing Fabrizia was the executor of Penelope’s estate and would have seen the will. ‘I’ll be there, of course.’

‘And Miss Valdez also,’ she added.

‘I’ll let her know.’

‘Splendid.’ His new agent let him go. ‘I shall see you there.’

Peter watched Fabrizia return to the marquee, feeling rather like he’d been picked up, tossed around inside a tornado and spat back out in paradise. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face as Gabrielle walked towards him.

‘What was that all about?’ She huddled up close to him, keen to hear the gossip.

‘I just scored myself an agent.’ He heard the words coming out of his mouth, but he still couldn’t believe it.

‘Oh my God, Peter,’ Gabrielle lowered her voice to repress her excitement. ‘That’s amazing! How?’

‘I just pitched her my idea,’ he said, still stunned. ‘I wasn’t even planning to.’ Another synchronous moment . . . a BIG one! he noted, before recalling one of the day’s opportunities he’d yet to catch up with. ‘Oh, damn.’

Peter took off in the direction he’d last seen Billy Boyle heading, trailing him around the marquee. On the other side was a path down to a gate where taxis were waiting but there was no sign of Mr Boyle. ‘Bugger.’ The old fellow had probably decided to skip the wake.

It seemed that the universe was shooting opportunities at him so fast today that he couldn’t keep up with them all. Not to worry, he decided, as this was an invitation-only affair, Fabrizia was sure to have the man’s contact details. Still, he wouldn’t take up any more of her time today; he could ask her about Mr Boyle at the reading of the will.

‘No, he wasn’t on my list.’ Fabrizia explained, as they chatted on the stairs of the building where Penelope’s lawyer had offices. ‘He must have come with someone else or he would not have been let through security.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Peter concurred.

‘Why so interested in Mr Boyle?’

‘Research.’ Peter kept it simple, as his real theory was too insane to explain at present.

‘Research?’ She was surprised. ‘You have me intrigued already.’

‘I have a bit of a theory,’ Peter explained, ‘but not enough of one to share at present.’

‘Is this still fiction?’ She picked up on the subtle inference that it may not be.

‘Not entirely sure at present.’

‘I’ll make some inquiries for you.’ The agent decided she could be of service. ‘Are we waiting for Miss Valdez to join us?’

‘She’s probably upstairs waiting for us,’ Peter assumed.

‘A woman who doesn’t wait around for her man, I like that,’ Fabrizia commented, making a move towards the large revolving glass door.

‘Hey, men are not always late.’ Peter made haste to catch up with his agent. ‘And if we are, it’s usually a woman who has delayed us.’ After he made the comment he considered it might have been a bit cheeky, but Fabrizia only laughed.

‘Touché, Peter,’ she awarded as she swished through the door ahead of him.

In the law office of Martyn Webster and Associates, Gabrielle sat chatting to Penelope’s housekeepers, Mr and Mrs Eddington, and apart from the lawyer, they were the only other people there.

‘Good morning,’ Martyn greeted the late arrivals. ‘Now we are all present, we can get started.’

‘We are it?’ Peter was bemused. Did Penelope not have extended family? Or other close friends, at least? He looked to Fabrizia, who appeared to sympathise with his shock, but only suggested he sit down and allow the lawyer to explain.

‘It will be good news, I assure you.’

Peter wasn’t sure why, but he suddenly felt a little nauseous. He took a seat beside Gabrielle, who served him a huge reassuring smile and took hold of his hand, then all eyes turned to the lawyer to hear him out.

‘My client, Penelope Whitman, had two wills, one of which she submitted to me only a short time ago. Which of these two wills was to be read this morning was entirely dependent on who was present in this room at this moment. Miss Whitman’s family were notified of this, and have refused to even send a representative, thus Penelope’s second and most recent will and testament is the one applicable to our present circumstance.’ Martyn looked to the paper in his hand. ‘I, Penelope Whitman, being of sound mind, do decree that in the absence of my family at the reading of my last will and testament, do grant the sum of two hundred thousand dollars from my estate to each of those who are present.’

Everybody gasped, except Fabrizia who was already aware of the decree.

‘It is my wish that my devoted agent, Fabrizia Zenton, continue to handle the affairs of my business, fifty per cent of the proceeds of which are to go to her, the other fifty to my estate. The sum total of my remaining earthly possessions I bequeath to my writing partner, Peter Lemond —’

‘What!’ Peter stood, elated to the point of outrage.

‘— who will accept this gift, knowing how I hate the idea of everything I worked my whole life to achieve being reduced to government assets.’

‘Oh my God.’ Peter had to sit back down.

‘It is my hope that he will now have no more excuses not to write his story.’

‘Two hundred thousand would have done it.’ Peter was stupefied.

‘However,’ Martyn read the last stipulation, ‘all rights to my works will be retained by my agent, Fabrizia Zenton, including my most current work.’

Peter felt a little guilty for feeling like he’d trade the fortune he’d just been given for the rights to the unfinished story. But as Fabrizia had stated yesterday, they were now partners in this venture, and at this point she brought so much more to the table than he did.

‘Well, Peter, that ought to make your departure from nursing far more easily explainable,’ Fabrizia stated once they were back on the front steps of the building.

‘You’re quitting nursing?’ This was the first Gabrielle had heard of it.

Peter cringed as Fabrizia waved goodbye. ‘I’ll call you if I discover anything about Mr Boyle.’

‘Many thanks,’ Peter called after her.

‘When did you decide?’ Gabrielle didn’t sound opposed to the idea.

‘Yesterday morning,’ he told the truth and got hit on the chest for it.

‘You’re supposed to share those kinds of revelations,’ she jested light-heartedly.

‘Well, at the time I didn’t have much of a backup plan,’ he explained. ‘But now . . . people would probably think me insane if I didn’t quit.’

‘I think it’s absolutely for the best.’ She made it clear she supported him one hundred per cent. ‘So you’ve had an idea for a story then?’

They began the walk to the car. ‘I think I want to write Em’s story.’

‘What?’ Gabrielle came to an abrupt halt. ‘But you don’t have the rights.’

‘Yes, I do,’ Peter bragged with glee. ‘Fabrizia gave me the go-ahead yesterday when I pitched the story to her.’

‘Hold on,’ Gabrielle urged Peter, while she held the top of her nose, as though she had a headache.

‘Is something wrong?’ Peter was worried about her for a second.

‘It’s Grandma,’ she explained.

‘Oh no.’ Peter looked around the busy city street. ‘Must we do this now? Here?’

‘Oh dear.’ Gabrielle did not appear happy about what she was hearing. ‘Are you sure?’ she questioned to herself, clearly becoming anxious.

‘What? What is it?’ Now Peter was feeling panicked.

‘She says that Penelope doesn’t want, sorry, forbids you to write Em’s story.’ Gabrielle winced, apparently already aware he was not going to take kindly to the news. ‘Penelope told her if she’d wanted you to write that story she would have left the rights of that book to you. She took them off you for a reason.’

‘She took them off me to solidify my partnership with her agent,’ Peter offered an alternative theory. ‘And fate, or rather destiny, which Penelope had the utmost faith in, has thrown every single thing I need to complete this task into my path, since I made the decision to take on writing full-time. Sorry, but I don’t believe for a second that Penelope, as a writer, would expect me to ignore all those synchronistic moments and pursue another story. There are some things that are beyond anyone else’s control.’ Peter was getting a little fed up with being told what he should and shouldn’t do. ‘And one of them is what I choose to do with my life.’

Peter was halfway through the car park before he realised Gabrielle was no longer following him, so he released his frustration in a growl. He’d unduly lost his patience and he knew it. This was the problem with relationships: the sex was great, but having to take the other person and their feelings into consideration on a full-time basis, that was bloody exhausting! This week had been such an emotional roller-coaster that Peter really just wanted to get off it for a while.

As he pulled the car out of the pay station, Gabrielle was waiting on the street. ‘I wasn’t trying to tell you what to do,’ she began. ‘I’m just the messenger.’

‘Can I give you a lift somewhere?’ Peter didn’t want to discuss it, but his cool tone undoubtedly made his offer sound uninviting.

‘If we’re not hanging out today, then no.’

The disappointment was plain in her voice, but Peter just couldn’t take any more drama at present and drove on.

Everything Peter could ever want materially had just been dropped into his lap; he should have been ecstatic, but instead he was quietly fuming.

This was the story, there was no other on the horizon at present; he had to grab this with both hands and run with it. Hell, even Penelope had warned him that if the muse struck and he didn’t act then before long he’d see his idea mused to another writer more willing.

Peter returned to Penelope’s house, as that was where his research was still residing, and now he didn’t even have to abscond with the books, he owned them — he owned everything! The realisation was dumbfounding. What the hell am I going to do with all of this?

He’d imagined starving for his art as he wrote his first novel. If his writerly aspirations had been just about the money, then he would already have reached his end game, he didn’t have to write a word. But his compulsion to write was all-consuming; he didn’t know why he felt this way, only that he did, and nothing else, not romance, not travel or any other earthly indulgence, seemed even mildly tempting by comparison.

‘So, you’re the one.’

Peter, who had taken a seat in the library, was startled back up to standing and swung about to find a younger version of Penelope Whitman standing in the doorway. She was older than himself, maybe in her forties or fifties, and he wondered for a moment if he was seeing a ghost. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The only living being that my mother could tolerate.’ She strolled into the room eyeing it and him with disdain.

‘How did you get in —’

‘You left the front gates open,’ she informed him. ‘You need to be more careful, now you’ve done so well for yourself.’

‘There are many people who are mourning Penelope at present.’ Peter could only assume this was one of Penelope’s estranged children. ‘And I’ll be happy to sign over this inheritance to any rightful claimant who is not going to liquidate the estate.’

‘Then you’re in luck, as it will be difficult to find one of those. Better to keep this place as a monument to Mother’s greatness, is that the plan?’ She seemed resentfully amused by the idea.

‘I haven’t really had the chance to give it much thought,’ he said honestly. ‘Peter Lemond.’ He held out a hand to her, but her arms remained crossed at her chest.

‘Evelyn Porter,’ she replied.

‘So what’s the reason for your visit, Evelyn?’ Peter maintained a polite tone, although obviously she was here to intimidate and chastise him.

‘Just curious to see what was so preferable to life with her family.’ She walked over to the French doors and opened them. ‘Ah yes, now I see. She was quite the party girl, my mother. But it was artists only, you understand. You must be an artist of some sort yourself, Peter, or you would not have got a look-in. In fact, I’d stake my life that you’re a writer.’

‘More of an editor at present.’

‘A young, male, aspiring author,’ Evelyn summed up. ‘No wonder you were in favour.’

Peter really didn’t like the way this conversation was headed; was she implying they were having an affair?

‘Peter?’ Gabrielle appeared in the library doorway, and Peter was suddenly very glad to see her. ‘The front gate and door were open . . .’ She spotted his uninvited guest on the patio beyond the doors.

‘Gabrielle, this is Penelope’s daughter, Evelyn.’ Peter did the honours as Gabrielle neared.

‘Another aspiring writer?’ Evelyn assumed.

‘A nurse,’ Peter replied bluntly.

‘Mother’s nurse?’ Evelyn queried, sounding conspicuously pleased to meet her.

‘Yes, I was Penelope’s day nurse for five years,’ Gabrielle advised as Evelyn shook her hand.

‘Five years! Congratulations . . . at least you got paid to put up with her.’

‘It was my pleasure. I would have done it for free.’ Gabrielle stiffened, obviously resenting Evelyn bad mouthing Penelope, and had it been anyone but Penelope’s daughter, Peter would have booted her out.

‘Is there something you want, Evelyn?’ Peter felt Gabrielle take hold of his arm in a bid to calm him down.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ Gabrielle suggested.

‘No, nothing.’ Evelyn walked past them and back towards the door. ‘I simply wanted a little time and space here to tell my mother and her stupid muse to go fuck themselves. But since the house is already occupied, I’ll air my grievances elsewhere.’ She disappeared into the foyer.

Peter was dumbstruck for a second, and although he knew querying Evelyn’s departing statement was only going to bring more resentment his way, he had to do it anyway.

Peter caught up to Evelyn on the front stairs. ‘Why hate her muse so much?’

‘Because it never let up,’ she spat back. ‘No matter what the event, or occasion, or crisis! Not once did she put us before it, not once. If you are going to be a writer, Mr Lemond, do everyone a favour: stay single and never have children.’ She turned and flounced down the stairs.

‘Intense.’ He watched her car take off leaving a cloud of gravel dust in the wake of its hasty departure, and turned to find Gabrielle standing at the top of the stairs.

‘I left my phone charger.’ She showed him the item and placed it in her handbag as she descended the stairs and walked right on past him.

‘You’re leaving?’

‘Yeah, just needed the cord.’

‘You don’t have to go.’ Peter pursued her. ‘I’m sorry about before, I just . . . really want to write this story.’

‘Then write it.’ She swung around to walk backwards and smiled.

‘But you told me not to?’ Peter couldn’t work out if she was still mad at him or not.

‘No, Penelope told you not to,’ she corrected. ‘But maybe she’s wrong.’ She shrugged and came to a stop. ‘You should do whatever compels you and fuck what anyone else thinks.’

Peter grinned. ‘And what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get out of your way and let you get on with it.’ She grinned, shrugged, turned about and kept walking. ‘Send me an email when you’ve got something for me to read.’ She raised a hand and waved but did not look back.

By all appearances Gabrielle seemed to have forgiven his outburst this morning, and was actually just giving him the space he so desperately needed. Of course, he could have been reading the situation completely wrong and she might walk out that gate and never speak to him again. ‘Maybe you could give me your critique over dinner?’

Gabrielle stopped in her tracks and turned about, seeming a little sentimental suddenly. ‘Good plan.’ She gave him the thumbs-up. ‘Now hurry up and write something, or I’ll never get to see you in that shirt.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’ Now he was certain she was onside.

‘Go break a leg, or a pencil, or whatever writers do.’ She blew him a kiss and continued up the drive.

That afternoon, with no one and nothing demanding his attention, Peter set himself up in the lounge room with a pot of coffee, an open fire, and the two untitled volumes that he’d pulled from Penelope’s safe.

The book of letters was a collection of correspondence between Emeline and Emanuel Fairchild that did not seem to directly reply to one another in a regular sequence. The pair were extraordinarily attached, even for siblings, thus Peter felt they were most likely twins.

The first batch of letters, from Emeline to her brother, were dated years earlier than those he’d sent her. Emeline spoke of her time on tour with a classical quartet who had taken a chance on hiring a female cellist. Cello had not been considered a suitable instrument for a lady at that time, being that one had to part one’s legs and support the instrument between the thighs. But as it turned out, that’s exactly what many of the male members of the audience came to see. Men desired her and women admired her.

Emanuel’s letters to his sister were from a later time and mainly spoke of how he missed her. There were a couple of people they both mentioned in their correspondence. One was a fellow whom they fondly referred to as Chester, who seemed to be something of a guardian to them both. The other was an extravagant art collector with the rather odd name of Reginald Pettigrew. The twins had nicknamed him ‘Proudfoot’ and he seemed to be something of a thorn in the side to them both.

As Peter jotted down the names of the characters in his tale, he was writing Chester when he had a little realisation. ‘Wait a second!’ He grabbed up the lovely neat untitled journal, and unlocking it, he opened it up to check on the writer’s name. ‘Henry Chesterfield. Chester?’ He wondered. If the man was a guardian or even a servant to the twins during this period of time it was rather odd that they should cut his surname into a nickname like that. But then maybe it was something the twins only did when they were writing privately to one another. ‘If I’m right, this is going to be a far more interesting read than I’d anticipated.’

The telephone ringing scared the life out of Peter, and he quickly rose and followed the sound to behind the stairwell, where the entrance to the kitchen was to be found.

He picked up the antique handset and raised it to his ear. ‘Hello?’

‘Peter?’

‘Fabrizia.’ He recognised her voice.

‘I have a contact number for Billy Boyle.’

‘Hold on,’ Peter found a pad and pen in the telephone table drawer. ‘Shoot.’

Fabrizia relayed the number and Peter expressed his gratitude.

‘Did you smooth over my faux pas with Miss Valdez this morning?’

‘Yes indeed, she understands completely.’

‘That’s rare, Peter, she’s a keeper.’

Great, he’d just got Penelope off his case and now his agent was taking up where she’d left off. ‘Your approval is duly noted.’

‘Best of luck on both counts. Bye.’

Fabrizia’s whirlwind impact was lessened over the phone, but the exchange still left him reeling; it was like having a little shot of adrenaline every time they spoke.

Peter rang the number he’d been given, and the phone was answered by a nurse at an aged care home. He inquired after Mr Boyle and was told the daily visiting hours. He asked if he could make an appointment to see the said patient the next day, and was told there was no need. ‘Folk here don’t get out much.’

‘A clear path forward,’ he considered as he replaced the receiver — that was exciting.

He awoke feeling panicked and was disorientated until he realised he was still on the lounge in the library with Henry Chesterfield’s diary open on his chest. The fire had gone out and with a cold sweat on his skin, Peter was freezing. He’d begun reading the butler’s tale, which had thus far been about the fairly dull day-to-day running of his household. It hadn’t mentioned anything of either Emeline or Emanuel, but that hadn’t prevented Peter from dreaming about Emeline again.

This time he’d been pursuing her through a party, although none of the other guests saw him, they only saw her and she was admired by all. Once she had led him to a private space she had appealed to him for help. How brave are you? she’d asked, right before he awoke.

‘That’s more than a coincidence.’

Twice in a row he’d dreamt of her and actually recollected it, and that was just a little creepy, considering what had happened in Penelope’s tale.

Peter took Chesterfield’s diary in-hand and sat upright. The name of the family Henry had worked for went by the name of Fairchild, so Peter was hoping the Ems would crop up in the memoir somewhere.

Maybe Peter was still dreaming, or perhaps it was wishful thinking, but he was sure he smelt the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. He followed the intoxicating smell through the hallway and into the kitchen where he found Thelma Eddington doing dishes. ‘Mrs Eddington?’

She looked to him and smiled broadly. ‘Good morning, Peter, would you like some coffee?’ She spoke rather loudly, but he pretended not to notice.

‘I would, very much.’ He spoke up to accept her merry offer. ‘But what are you doing here? I’m not selling the house.’

‘I know!’ She wiped her hands and poured the brew from a jug into a cup. ‘Fred and I would be thrilled if we could remain in the service of the estate, and you, of course.’

She was such a delightful old lady, Peter couldn’t help but smile. ‘But you’ve just been given a small fortune, don’t you and your husband wish to retire and take a holiday or something?’

‘What’s that?’ she queried with frown.

‘A holiday?’ Peter repeated, ‘don’t you want —’

‘Heavens, no!’ She set the coffee down in front of him, and Peter took a seat at the breakfast bar. ‘We are both the type who like to be kept busy. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself on a vacation, I’d be bored out of my mind . . . and probably start cleaning the place.’ She chuckled and her joy was infectious. ‘And don’t you worry about your privacy; I take care of the rooms you frequent, when you are not home, or elsewhere in the house. But I’ll always let you know what my movements are.’

Peter hadn’t even had a chance to think about the upkeep of the place, so the arrangement certainly suited him. ‘Well, I’m very grateful for your service, Mrs Eddington, I dare say I’m not a very good housekeeper. I shall take a look at your contracts . . . I’m sure we can come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial.’

This news seemed to please her very much. ‘Well, we wouldn’t expect you to hire us without sampling our services. At present, we are still under contract to the estate, and will be for another month, so you have a little time to decide if you wish to renew.’

‘I should like to keep this place just as Penelope would have wished it.’ Peter was not about to reward their years of service with an unwarranted dismissal.

‘That’s wonderful news.’ Mrs Eddington brushed a happy tear from her eye. ‘Now, what will you have for breakfast? Bacon and eggs, buckwheat walnut pancakes with syrup, eggs Benedict with salmon?’

Peter wasn’t a breakfast person usually — having worked the night shift for so long his eating times were all out of whack. ‘Well, that all sounds amazing.’

‘All of it, it is then,’ she said decidedly, pulling bowls out of the cupboard, eager to please.

‘No.’ Peter repressed a laugh at the misunderstanding. ‘I couldn’t possibly eat all that. You choose.’

‘Well, it’s all delicious,’ she assured him, ‘but as I have some fresh salmon today, I’d recommend the eggs Benedict.’

‘Sounds fabulous.’ Peter sipped his coffee and it was superb.

‘And where would you like breakfast served?’ Thelma queried, eyebrows raised as she waited to be advised.

‘How about right here?’ Peter didn’t want to put her to any trouble.

‘And waste a beautiful morning like this?’ She placed her hands on her hips.

‘Where would you recommend?’ Peter got the distinct impression he was invading her kitchen.

‘The patio beside the pool is lovely this time of day.’ She pulled produce from the fridge.

‘Well, I’ll go and check that out.’ He picked up his coffee and headed out there via the library, to find Wilfred skimming the leaves from the surface of the pool. ‘Good morning, Wilfred.’

‘Good morning, sir, I hope we didn’t disturb you; we were endeavouring to be as quiet as possible.’

‘It was the smell of your wife’s coffee that brought me round.’ Peter observed that it was indeed a lovely morning, the breeze was cool, but the sun was warm.

‘The morning paper is on the table.’ Wilfred pointed to a table under a vine-laced pagoda being bathed in morning sunshine at the end of the pool.

‘Goodness, I haven’t read a physical paper for years!’ Peter was rather delighted by the novelty — the Eddingtons were certainly aiming to impress.

‘Trying to read a screen in the sunshine is likely to be a headache, quite literally.’ Wilfred hung up his pool scoop as Peter took a seat with his coffee and opened up the paper.

‘This is far more pleasant in any case.’ Peter felt thoroughly spoilt. ‘I could get used to this.’

‘You will,’ Wilfred allowed kindly. ‘Was the lounge quite comfortable?’ The caretaker seemed amused by Peter’s choice of bed. ‘We shall leave more blankets about in future.’

‘I was a little cold when I woke,’ Peter confessed. ‘But feeling so much better now.’ He tilted his head back to catch the mottled sunshine through the pagoda vines and decided he couldn’t be happier. There was a twinge of regret underlying his bliss — he should have invited Gabrielle to stay another day; she would have loved this pampering. Still, he could surprise her next time she stayed over.

‘Will you be requiring lunch or dinner today?’ Thelma placed his breakfast down in front of him and it smelt and appeared fit for a king.

‘I don’t want to put you to any trouble.’ Peter hoed into his meal, and groaned with delight. ‘This is amazing, Mrs E.’

‘There’s more where that came from,’ she chuckled. ‘And it’s no trouble, it’s my job to keep the kitchen well stocked.’

‘Thelma loves to cook,’ Wilfred attested.

‘I love to eat . . . match made in heaven.’ Peter grinned. ‘But I am going out this morning, so I won’t be home for lunch, and I’m not sure about dinner, either.’

‘I’ll leave a pie in the fridge; you can just heat it up if you need something.’ She backed up wiping her hands on her apron.

‘That’s very kind of you.’ Peter had never felt so taken care of, as his parents had been professional types and not very domestic.

‘Enjoy.’ Wilfred accompanied his wife back into the house.

The pool filters and sprinkler systems in the garden shut off — Peter hadn’t noticed how noisy they were until their absence — all that was left was the trickling sounds from the various water features and the chirping of the birds and bugs.

It was hard to escape the feeling he was on holiday in this oasis; he didn’t think he’d ever really consider this estate as belonging to him. Peter felt rather more like a custodian with benefits at present, and that wasn’t likely to change any time soon. Any normal person would take the time to enjoy all this — he hadn’t even seen half the house — but all things aside, it was all just a pretty distraction. At long last, Peter had a realistic shot at his goal and he wasn’t about to lose sight of the prize for any reason.

‘It never let up!’

This inexplicable compulsion was no doubt exactly what Penelope’s daughter, Evelyn, despised so much about her mother, but this need was something only another artist could understand — or perhaps a great athlete, mystic or activist. For the drive and passion required to complete the quest had to be great and all-consuming, or you would never go the distance.

Could this desire have triggered his dreams about Em? Perhaps the occurrence was merely his psyche submerging into her world in order to write it, and a completely normal part of the writing process? That was a question to put to Denise Yin and company when they met for one of their writerly gatherings.

But today, it was back to 4 Kismet Way and the characters thereof. Had this story unfolded in reality, or had Penelope just used the situation as a muse for her fiction? Even though Peter would be forced to leave his idyllic present circumstance, he couldn’t wait to find out.

At the retirement village, Peter was directed out into the gardens, to where Mr Boyle could be found.

‘Mr Boyle?’ Peter approached the bench where Billy sat in the shade of a large tree. ‘My name is Peter Lemond.’

‘You’re the one who called yesterday?’

‘I am,’ Peter smiled and took a seat on the bench beside him.

‘I saw you at Penelope’s funeral, didn’t I?’

‘You did,’ Peter pulled the photo he’d found in Penelope’s art book out of his jacket pocket and showed it to Billy. ‘Is the sax player in the photograph you?’

Billy gave a laugh once he focused on the picture. ‘It surely is.’ He shook his head. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I was wondering whether you could tell me anything about the circumstances in which the photo was taken? Where, when . . . who the others in the photo are?’

Billy cocked an eye, suddenly wary. ‘Are you writing a book about Penelope?’

‘No.’ Peter wanted to set the man at ease, but if Billy was the musician in Penelope’s story, he doubted the truth was going to be of any consolation. ‘Actually, I was working on a book with Penelope about four artists sharing a studio.’

Billy appeared a tad annoyed by the synopsis. ‘Did she mention it was haunted?’ he scoffed.

‘So 4 Kismet Way actually existed?’ Peter’s heart began racing in his chest.

‘Still does, as far as I’m aware,’ Billy said, and Peter could barely breathe for his excitement. ‘I tried to burn it down once, albeit unsuccessfully.’

‘You did?’ Peter grabbed his head to contain his excitement. ‘You know what happened?’ It was impossible to convey how ecstatic he was to hear that, but clearly to Billy, Peter’s excitement was obvious.

‘I do.’ The old bloke grinned. ‘But it’s not pretty.’

That fact didn’t dampen Peter’s excitement one iota; here was the living, breathing ending to Penelope’s book. ‘Mr Boyle, I wonder if you would indulge a first-time writer with a few days of your time? Penelope left her house to me, and I’d be honoured if you could come and stay a few days and tell me the ending of her story. I could read you what we wrote of the book,’ he proffered.

‘That sounds wonderful.’ Billy was obviously well disposed towards the idea. ‘I’d love to see Penelope’s palace again.’ Then the joy slipped from his face. ‘But I’m an old man, Peter. I can’t go and stay anywhere these days without a nurse. It’s a lot of trouble to —’

‘I am a nurse,’ Peter advised happily and Billy’s spirits appeared to soar once more.

‘Well, that’s all right then,’ Billy resolved, raising himself as fast as he could, leaning on his walking stick to support his stance. ‘Let’s blow this joint.’

Peter wasn’t too sure how to take this comment, considering what Penelope had been like. ‘I don’t smoke.’

Billy laughed. ‘I meant, let us depart.’

‘Oh,’ Peter stood to walk with him.

‘There will be paperwork,’ Billy warned.

Peter knew this. ‘There’s always paperwork.’

‘Thanks for this, Peter, I don’t get many visitors these days and even fewer outings.’

‘I assure you, Mr Boyle, I am far more excited than you are.’

‘Call me, Billy,’ he insisted. ‘Do you have any whisky?’

‘That depends on what your chart says.’ Peter wasn’t committing to anything yet.

‘I tell a much better story with a whisky,’ Billy cautioned Peter against ruling out the possibility altogether.

In the car, his passenger snoozed for most of the trip back to Penelope’s house, and when they arrived Peter woke Billy gently and aided him to a guest bedroom on the lower floor. It wasn’t as grand as those on the second level of the house, but it would save Billy’s ageing bones the hike up the staircase.

‘Old muso habits die hard,’ Billy explained, as he crawled onto the bed. ‘I’ll be wide awake tonight.’

‘No hurry.’ Peter removed his guest’s shoes and covered him with a blanket. ‘I’ve worked the night shift for years, so we’ll be right in sync.’

‘You understand . . .’ he mumbled, drifting back off to sleep.

Peter plugged in a sound monitor and attached the remote to his belt to keep an ear out for this charge, who might be disorientated when he awoke. He then headed to the kitchen to advise Mrs Eddington that they had a guest.

‘Good thing I made a pie big enough for two then.’ She grinned, pointing him to the fridge, which Peter opened to behold his generous dinner.

‘Are you a mind reader, Mrs E?’ Peter was beginning to wonder.

‘Well, you might have had company?’ She shrugged shyly and Peter realised she’d had Gabrielle in mind.

‘After Mr Boyle’s stay I don’t expect to have any company for a while, as I’ll be writing.’

‘That’s lovely.’ She was delighted. ‘Another writer.’

‘Aspiring,’ Peter felt compelled to clarify.

‘You’ve got an idea then?’ She fetched the coffee pot to rinse and make a fresh brew.

‘I do.’ It was only when she asked that it occurred to Peter that if Penelope’s story had really happened, perhaps Thelma and Wilfred knew something of Em? ‘Can I ask how long you and Mr E have worked for Penelope?’

‘Since she bought this house, really.’ She paused to consider. ‘Going on fifty years now.’

‘My goodness.’ Peter was impressed. ‘You must have been young when she hired you?’

‘My first and only job,’ she informed him proudly.

No wonder the lovely old couple were having trouble leaving the place; it was all they had ever known. ‘I wonder . . . did Penelope ever mention a character named Em?’

‘Em?’ The housekeeper turned white. ‘Only once that I recall.’ She seemed rather disturbed by the memory. ‘It was just before her first stroke. Ms Whitman was talking to someone who was not present in the room, which wasn’t an unusual event; as an author she spoke to her characters and muses all the time! But I never heard her quite so upset as she was that day, and the name she kept using was Em.’

Peter was intrigued and discomforted at once. ‘Do you remember anything she said to Em?’

‘I heard her say something like . . . “I can’t risk it, Em. You should have told me the truth from the beginning.” That’s all, really. Once the stroke took hold everything she said was gibberish.’

‘It wasn’t smoking that gave me a stroke, it was a stressful situation.’ The recollection of Penelope’s claim gave him a chill now.

‘Do you have a character named Em?’ Thelma was obviously curious about his line of questioning.

‘There was one in the last story Penelope was writing,’ Peter allowed, ‘who seems to have been a bit more than a work of fiction.’

‘Ooooh!’ Thelma quivered and crossed her arms to warm herself. ‘You’re giving me chills already. Are you a horror writer then?’

‘I’m not too sure what genre you’d class this story as.’ His mind boggled at the possibilities — there seemed to be several stories here, all interwoven across time, and even he was now bound up in it.

‘Well, we’ll be very careful not to disturb you once you start. I’ll just slip in a little snack every now and then.’

‘That sounds like heaven,’ Peter expressed his gratitude — now if he only knew where to start.

After dinner Peter read Billy the manuscript, right up to the last scene. ‘And that’s it,’ he concluded. ‘Can you tell me what happened next?’

‘I could . . .’ Billy suggested, holding fingers to his temple, ‘but it’s all a little vague.’

‘Let me guess, whisky does wonders for your memory,’ Peter posed.

‘Now that you mention it, yes . . . yes, it does.’

‘At your age, drinking is really not good for you —’

‘At my age, breathing is not good for me, but I still do it,’ Billy grumbled.

‘Could we not go there?’ Peter didn’t wish to be responsible for killing the man.

‘Tell me, Peter, are you a writer first and foremost, or a nurse?’

The crafty old bugger knew what the answer would be. ‘Just one.’

‘Of course!’ Billy agreed happily. ‘But you’d better bring the bottle, just in case,’ he called after him.

Glass of whisky in-hand, Billy settled back into his chair by the fire. ‘Sheer luxury.’ He wallowed in the moment of his first sip.

The man appeared so contented, Peter decided to pour himself a glass, and his first sip almost made him choke. ‘How do you drink this stuff neat?’

‘You don’t ruin a good whisky with a bloody mixer.’ Billy sounded completely appalled.

‘If you say so.’ Peter placed the glass aside and took up the photograph of the four artists. ‘So you are in the photograph and Penelope Whitman is the writer; who are the dancer and the artist?’

‘That photograph was intended to be a caricature of us all. The ballerina was Isabelle Basque, a rising star, and Fabian Donati, the painter you see there, was obsessed with her and painting her.’

‘Fabian Donati?’ Peter repeated, feeling he’d heard that name before.

‘Yes, his works are quite famous,’ Billy said, having another wee sip of his drink.

‘Are they both still alive?’ Peter ventured at the risk of sounding tactless.

‘No, no,’ Billy was sad to say. ‘They both died young.’

‘May I ask what happened to them?’ Peter inadvertently sipped from his glass, and although struck by the strength of the drink, it went down a little easier this time.

‘If you want my opinion, it was that bloody ghost!’ Billy was up in arms. ‘Fabian and Isabelle were the most perfect couple but Isabelle, like me, suspected that Em had a destructive hold on our flatmates. She aided me to start the fire in the storage closet. We hoped that in getting rid of Em’s artwork we might be rid of the ghost too. I’d already moved out of the place, but Isabelle begged me to help get the others out of there before they were so obsessed with their art that the rest of their lives went to hell.’

‘And?’ Peter was on the edge of his seat, sipping more whisky.

‘The artwork wouldn’t burn,’ Billy summed up. ‘We tried everything. Even petrol just rolled off the canvases without leaving a trace on the items or floor. It was freaky! A few days later Isabelle was found dead in the studio.’

‘What?’ Peter was alarmed to hear this.

‘I had nightmares for ages, so it’s surprising I didn’t end up the same. A freak heart attack they said, but I know different. Fabian never painted again, which is why his ballerina paintings are so valued now, due to their rarity and the tragic love story attached. Fabian died the year after Isabelle, of a broken heart, it was said. But that was just a romantic sales pitch. If you ask me, Fabian regretted not getting out of the apartment sooner, and refused to paint to get back at the ghost for what he’d suspected it had done.’

‘So Penelope finally came to her senses and moved out,’ Peter assumed.

‘Well, she moved out,’ Billy granted. ‘But I don’t know that she ever really let go of Em. Of all of us, she was the most obsessed with the ghost, yet the least aware of Em’s existence and the extent of the entity’s power. She simply regarded Em as her muse.’

Peter was getting creepy chills all over him now. ‘But after all that had happened, why didn’t she try to escape Em, like you did?’

‘I think Em had her enchanted. Penelope never said so, but I don’t think she was convinced Em was responsible for our sad turn of events. I lost my girlfriend, two dear friends, and I nearly lost my mind. If you want my opinion, Penelope may as well have made a deal with the devil! She lost her husband, her children, and quite a few friends, but she started churning out bestsellers and never looked back.’

‘I have the journals they found in that closet,’ Peter confessed.

‘Bloody hell,’ Billy grumbled, ‘please say you’re joking.’

‘I’ve been dreaming about Em since I found them.’ Peter thought he might as well be out with all of it.

‘Do not go there,’ Billy warned, ‘getting back out is hell!’

‘I understand your reserve, considering what you’ve said. I know this spirit likes to express its artistic flair vicariously through other living artists.’

Billy gave a grunt, to make it clear he thought that an understatement.

‘But I believe that’s only how Em finds amusement; I think what Em is really waiting for is someone to write her story.’

‘Then why didn’t Penelope just write it and be done with it?’ Billy scoffed.

‘That’s what I mean to find out.’ Peter finished the remains of his drink.

‘You’re a gamer man than I,’ Billy warranted.

‘Did you ever read the journals?’ Peter decided he wouldn’t mind another glass and Billy held his glass out for a refill too. Peter hesitated for a second and then obliged him.

‘Bless you, Peter, you’re a good lad.’ Billy settled back in his chair, happy once more. ‘No, I never read them. I didn’t want anything to do with the place after my classical duet in the otherworld. I can see that Penelope has updated some of the details of the story, and compressed events that happened over many years into a much shorter time span, but most of it is pretty true to form. Clever, making herself a man, so that no one would guess she was chronicling her own experience.’

‘Maybe she meant to tell Em’s story in this book, but died before she got there,’ Peter posed. ‘Penelope did actually refer me to these journals, so I feel she intended to use them.’

‘I reckon the only reason Em let me be was because Penelope was so obliging,’ Billy decided. ‘After she got divorced, she bought this place and the only time anyone ever saw her was between novels. Is that how you want your life to turn out, Peter?’ Billy queried sombrely.

Actually, Peter mostly wanted to say yes.

‘That was a very pretty girl I saw on your arm at the funeral.’ The old gent placed his glass down for the first time in the entire conversation. ‘I can tell you now; Em won’t tolerate having that kind of a distraction around, and will find a way to be rid of her.’

Peter felt he had that covered at least. ‘Gabrielle is leaving me alone to write this piece, which sounds like it’s for the best after what you’ve told me.’ Gabrielle also had her own psychic protection in the form of her grandmother. ‘Perhaps Em will be content if I take on writing her story.’

‘Or she’ll become even more obsessive.’ Billy played devil’s advocate. ‘You have no idea what her story is, or why Penelope didn’t go there. Should you decide you do not want to go there either, then what? You think you will be able to simply walk away? Well you won’t. And even if you do finish it, you think Em will just be content and leave?’ Billy hesitated to laugh, for clearly he felt it no laughing matter. ‘If she becomes famous through you, she’s going to want to bask in that glory! Em is the type who wants to be adored.’

‘And why did you start playing saxophone, Billy?’ Peter posed.

Billy nodded, conceding his point. ‘Yes, all artists aspire to leave a legacy that will inspire those who will follow, but when I’m dead I don’t plan on possessing others to keep doing it.’

‘That’s because you plan to rest in peace, Mr Boyle,’ Peter speculated. ‘But for some reason Em cannot rest in peace. Perhaps some injustice was done her that has not come to light?’

Billy cocked an eye. ‘I hadn’t thought about it like that. Perhaps you’re right. If I couldn’t rest in peace, I’d probably be looking to bring to light the reason why. Still, it doesn’t detract from the fact that Em has quite possibly murdered in order to achieve that end. You just be careful, my lad.’

It was unclear to Peter how he could take precautions in this instance, but he agreed with Billy nonetheless. Perhaps the whisky was getting to him and making him feel all philosophical, but Peter had to wonder if, when he looked back on this instance at some future date: would he feel pride in his persistence, or regret his naivety?

WRITERS’ GROUP

It had been inspiring having Billy stay a few days, and Peter felt Fabrizia and Gabrielle would be thrilled that he’d collected enough information to at least tell them the ending of 4 Kismet Way.

Throughout Billy’s stay, Peter’s sleeping hours had continued to be haunted by dreams of Em trying to lead him somewhere and enlist his help for something, but the details of the quest remained hazy. If only he could speak with her in his waking state, then perhaps he would get some good solid leads. Fortunately Billy had slept soundly — perhaps Em didn’t recognise him, or felt him too old to be of service to her any more? Peter did intend to seek out and visit the residence at 4 Kismet Way as Billy had shown him exactly where in the city the dwelling was to be found. He didn’t really expect to find any clues still residing there, but it would be good to just feel the atmosphere of the place where he suspected Em’s story had unfolded.

Peter had literally just walked in the door of Penelope’s house after dropping Billy back to the home, when the phone started ringing. ‘I’ll get it!’ he called to save pulling Mrs Eddington from whatever she was doing.

‘Hello?’ Peter was getting used to the weighty handset of the antique phone now and rather liked it, as you never wanted to stay on the line for very long.

‘Peter?’

‘Yes, Peter Lemond speaking.’

‘Peter, it’s Denise Yin. I hope you don’t mind me chasing you down, I got this number from Fabrizia.’

‘Not at all, Denise. I’m delighted you would call. What can I do for you?’ Peter was quietly dying of excitement while attempting to sound completely casual about the fact that an award-winning, international bestselling author was giving him a second thought.

‘It’s about our little writers’ group. We’re getting together for dinner on Thursday and wondered if you might like to join us?’

‘I certainly would!’ Peter was overwhelmed; when she’d made the offer at the funeral he didn’t actually think she’d make good on it.

‘Congratulations on landing yourself in Fabrizia’s stable, by the way, very well done.’

‘I’ll say, considering I haven’t actually written a word yet.’ He felt more than a little uncomfortable about that.

‘That must have been one hell of a synopsis!’ She laughed.

‘I didn’t even realise I was doing a pitch.’

‘Well, that’s the thing with Fabrizia, anything you suggest or do may be commissioned as a book.’

‘I am honoured in any case,’ Peter allowed, ‘both with my new agent and your lovely invitation.’

‘So pleased. There’s this wonderful little café bookstore down from me, called Caf-fic. We all love it because you can buy books at all hours.’

‘Fantastic.’ Peter jotted down the name. ‘What time?’

‘About six?’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘Splendid. See you then.’

Peter was suddenly very thankful that Penelope had insisted he buy some decent clothes. Speaking of which, he really did have to do something about moving his things out of his old rental apartment and winding up the lease, not to mention handing in his resignation at the hospital — that would be the next few days blown. But after that, and dinner with the writers’ group, there wasn’t anything on his agenda and he intended to keep it that way. He planned to lock himself in the library and he wasn’t coming out until he nailed at least the first twenty pages of this story.

By Thursday evening Peter was exhausted from moving house; fortunately he was a bit of a minimalist and didn’t own much furniture. His apartment had always been just somewhere to crash between shifts, and it wasn’t exactly an inspiring atmosphere in which to create a novel. At Penelope’s place he’d have to beware of just the opposite: it was so peaceful and away from it all, the temptation was to just sit back and enjoy. There was no deadline to race against — the only pressure to write this novel at present was the one he was imposing on himself and that pressure was immense, and growing with every day that passed without a word being put to paper. Despite champing at the bit to get started, and despite his exhaustion, Peter was really looking forward to hearing some wise words and writing tips from well-seasoned authors — any advice at this point would not go astray.

At the chic little late night café, Denise and two other writers had arrived ahead of him and had already been shown to a table. Denny greeted him warmly, and he was surprised to see that her hair had changed in colour from red to pink since last they’d met, but it too served to highlight her deep green eyes. Denise introduced him to Tamar Ruban — a sweet, unassuming little woman who wrote historical fantasy, and Joe Jackman, who wrote eco-thrillers and was dressed all in denim.

‘Boo!’

Peter and Denise were startled by a gentleman who crept up behind them. ‘And this is Spooky Burns. You’ll never guess what he writes?’

‘I know what he writes.’ Peter shook the hand of the dishevelled-looking fellow who, even in his expensive clothes, managed to look like a vagrant — his long, greying hair and scruffy beard had a lot to do with that. ‘Horror. I’ve read you, and watched every TV series. Sorry to sound like a crazed fan, but I am really.’ Peter shrugged off any embarrassment.

‘Well, it’s good to have a newbie at the table; we’ve not had a chance to eat one of those in a while.’ His Scottish accent, combined with his gruff voice, made Peter smile as the horror master winked and moved on to greet Joe and Tamar.

‘He’s kidding,’ Denise assured Peter as they finally took a seat at the table.

‘Where’s Books?’ Spooky asked.

Spooky was not the man’s real name, it was a nickname he’d picked up from telling creepy tales as a kid, and it had stuck with him for so long that no one knew his true name.

‘Fred’s just finishing a scene, he’ll be along presently,’ Denise explained.

‘Fred E Books?’ Peter gulped. Books was only the most popular dark fantasy writer to emerge in the last ten years!

‘Yes indeed.’ Denise confirmed Peter’s awe. ‘He’s on a deadline, but he hasn’t ever missed one of our dinners.’

‘I do believe Fred has cut the E out of his name now. Due to the advent of e-books, it all got too confusing,’ Joe was amused. ‘Books claims he’s quite honoured to have had an entire industry named after him, but he hates the idea of reading for pleasure off a screen.’

‘Hear, hear!’ Spooky agreed. ‘Long live the paperback. I wonder who Books is killing, then?’ He looked for a waiter and flagged one over to order a drink. ‘He’s worse than I am, and my characters are lunatics and demons, usually.’

‘The only person more murderous than Fred is probably Tamar,’ Joe suggested and they all agreed.

The sweet little woman gave a sly grin and shrugged. ‘I have two teenage boys who are constantly challenging me,’ she explained. ‘So once I get them out the door in the morning, I indiscriminately take out my angst on my characters. First character I meet once I’m in is a dead man.’

‘Good technique.’ Peter was immediately fascinated.

‘Nothing like a bit of murder to make one feel all shiny and new.’ Tamar sat up tall and smiled proudly. ‘Call it writer therapy.’

‘I think we’d have double the number of murders and villains in the world — or in Joe’s case eco-terrorists,’ Spooky allowed and Joe nodded to graciously accept the exception, ‘but half of us just became writers instead.’

‘So what’s your poison, I mean, genre, Peter?’ Spooky brought the conversation around to him. ‘Or have you yet to be pigeonholed?’

‘It’s a little hard to be pigeon-holed when I haven’t written a word yet. It’s just an idea that I’m researching. I actually plan on leaving here this evening and making a start first thing tomorrow. Do you all have any advice for me?’

‘Chocolate,’ said Tamar assuredly, ‘large quantities of it.’

‘Easy for you to say, with your waif-like frame,’ Denise jibed.

‘Disconnect the internet,’ advised Joe. ‘Which is a little difficult when we’re all meant to do our own promotion these days.’

Everyone at the table whined in agreement.

‘And throw away your mobile phone,’ Spooky added. ‘If you want to be a writer you must not become part of the zombie apocalypse. How can anyone be inspired by life if they never look up from a bloody screen and experience what’s going on in the world around them?’

‘Here we go,’ commented Joe. This was obviously a pet gripe with Spooky.

‘Well, it’s true!’ He was indignant. ‘Besides, I’m a writer, I don’t want to be found, or spied on by the bloody government. You may as well just carry a personal tracking device everywhere you go! Then you have to charge the bloody things and throw money at them — they’re worse than kids! No offence to you parent types.’ He aimed the apology towards Joe and Tamar.

‘None taken.’ Tamar, seated beside him, gave him a squeeze. ‘We all know children are your worst nightmare.’

Denise considered her response to Peter’s query, as she sipped at her bright pink cocktail. ‘My best advice? Let me see . . . Treat writing like a regular job, have working hours, stick to those hours, and make sure everyone you know understands you are working and are not to be interrupted. If you don’t take yourself seriously, no one will.’

‘That’s good advice,’ Joe agreed, holding up the bottle of wine he’d purchased to offer Peter a glass, and Peter gave a nod to accept.

‘The only difference between writing and a regular job,’ Tamar held up a finger to stipulate, ‘should be that you can go to work in your pyjamas — that’s my favourite job perk.’

‘Alongside being paid to sit around and daydream all day long.’ Spooky got his drink and his spirits clearly lifted.

‘Yes,’ agreed Denise. ‘My teachers told me that daydreaming would never get me anywhere . . . how wrong were they?’ She held up her glass for a toast. ‘To daydreamers,’ she proposed.

‘To us!’ they all responded, clinking glasses.

‘Ah, my people!’ Fred Books announced his arrival, spreading wide his arms at the end of the table. ‘How are the merry misfits this evening?’

Peter was completely awestruck by the charisma of the old gent; you could feel the self-confidence and brilliance oozing from every fibre of his being — you knew immediately you were in the presence of greatness. He was a rather rotund, jolly fellow, who dressed well and obviously enjoyed eating well too.

‘And this must be Peter.’ Fred’s attention immediately turned his way.

Peter was so stunned this legend even knew his name that he rose quickly to address him and knocked his chair over in the process. He wanted to die from embarrassment, but instead, he completely ignored the incident. ‘It’s an honour to meet you, Fred; I am humbled that you even realise I exist.’

‘Well, when Fabrizia has a premonition about someone, she tells me. It’s a game we play, just to see how often she’s right.’ Fred took his seat at the end of the table, and as a waiter had restored Peter’s seat to its upright position, the embarrassing event was almost entirely unnoticed.

‘And how often is she correct?’ Peter sat back down.

Fred held his hands out to revert the question to all those present.

‘Fabrizia is always right,’ they responded in unison, seeming rather pleased about that.

‘The sooner you learn that fact of life the better,’ Fred advised.

‘Fabrizia is God!’ Tamar stated unequivocally.

‘No pressure,’ jeered Spooky, with a laugh.

‘Do you have a premise for your yarn, Peter?’ Tamar queried.

‘I have,’ Peter ventured. ‘I’m afraid I’m going with the old adage that the butler did it.’ Everyone seemed to find this an amusing comeback.

‘An oldie but a goodie,’ encouraged Fred. ‘But don’t tell us anything more. Never discuss your plot lines with a bunch of writers, or anyone bar maybe an editor you trust.’

‘Remember what happened to Penelope on her last book.’ Denise nudged his shoulder with hers. ‘It’s not surprising that free-loading bitch was never heard from again. People in this industry have a lot of respect for Penelope, so even if her “co-author” —’ Denise held up two fingers and waved them to imply quotation marks ‘— wrote a masterpiece, no one would publish it.’

Tamar shrugged. ‘Karma works.’

Fred finished pouring himself a glass of wine and held it high. ‘To karma.’

They clinked glasses and drank to that.

‘Now, let’s eat,’ Fred insisted. ‘I’m completely ravenous!’

‘You’re always bloody ravenous. That is what the E in his name stands for . . . eat!’ Spooky advised Peter, who wasn’t too sure if he was joking or not. ‘But as it happens, I’m pretty damn hungry myself.’

With a click of Fred’s fingers, a waiter was at their table to take their order.

Peter didn’t talk throughout dinner, he was learning way too much by just shutting up and listening to the writers’ group discuss the joys and tribulations of an author’s life. The topics ranged from dealing with film production rights, to royalties, tax, touring and promotion; information that would prove invaluable to Peter in the future — assuming that he could achieve his goal.

It was as they waited for dessert and coffee that Fred looked to Peter to ask, ‘Well, you’ve listened to us all crap on about ourselves all night —’

Peter held both palms up to assure the legend, ‘It’s a real education for me, I promise you.’

‘But is there anything specifically that you need advice about?’

Peter thought it very considerate for Fred to ask. ‘Actually there is a question I’d like to put to you all.’

‘Shoot!’ Spooky invited, and everyone else appeared keen to help too.

‘I was wondering, when you are musing or writing a story, do you dream about it also?’ Peter felt a little odd asking the question until everyone at the table answered with a resounding ‘Yes’, or ‘All the time!’

‘I wouldn’t call mine dreams.’ Spooky grinned. ‘I think I’m one of the only people I know who actually enjoys having nightmares.’

‘I find sometimes, when I’m stuck for what happens next,’ Tamar piped up, ‘that if I just dwell on it before I sleep, I usually wake up with an answer, even if I don’t remember what I dreamt!’

‘Me too!’ Denise concurred.

‘Ditto,’ added Joe.

‘I’ve perfected the art of lucid dreaming,’ Fred boasted.

‘What’s that?’ Peter queried.

‘It involves maintaining a semi-conscious state when entering into a sleep state, whereby you are aware you’re dreaming and are able to control the events unfolding,’ Fred clarified.

‘Wow.’ Peter was excited; that would help his cause immensely. ‘How did you learn to do that?’

‘Yes, that would be most helpful.’ Tamar was also keen to hear more.

‘It’s just a matter of training.’ Fred shrugged it off as if it were a simple matter. ‘I’d be happy to send you some links to some exercises I used.’ Fred pulled out his phone. ‘Do you have a private social media page? I’ll friend you.’

‘I do.’ Peter’s heart had jumped into his throat and was beating so hard that it was restricting his ability to breathe.

‘We should all do that.’ Denise pulled out her phone too, and everyone followed suit.

‘Thank you, so much.’ Peter was feeling rather overwhelmed. ‘I really appreciate your advice and interest.’

‘Think nothing of it.’ Denise waved off his gratitude.

‘You are one of the crew of the good ship Fabrizia now.’ Fred smiled as his dessert was placed in front of him. ‘We all take care of each other.’

Peter couldn’t help but be a little choked up by their generosity. ‘I rather expected authors would be elitist and self-serving, but you’re not like that at all.’

‘Self-promoting maybe,’ Joe allowed, ‘mainly because we have no choice in that matter.’

‘I think he has us confused with those literary types,’ Spooky proffered. ‘This is genre fiction, lad, and what we’ve realised is that one writer does not an industry make. Not even Fred can keep all of the people reading all of the time. At best we can churn out a couple of novels a year, and no matter how long that tale may be, my avid readers will chew through it in a day and be wanting the next book yesterday.’

‘I know, right?’ Tamar could completely relate.

‘What are our readers to read for the other three hundred and sixty-odd days?’ Spooky concluded.

‘Best to help one another where we can,’ Denise said as she poured her tea. ‘Then we all thrive.’

‘Cross-promotion is the way to go,’ Joe agreed. ‘Back when I was first published, genre writers didn’t get to meet up very often; we were sort of a sideshow at a big literary convention every now and then.’

‘A little oddity to be looked down upon by the more serious writers,’ Tamar emphasised, pulling a sour face.

‘Until we started out-selling them all ten-to-one.’ Denise grinned. ‘Or in Fred’s case, a thousand to one.’

Fred did not deny or confirm, he merely chuckled.

‘Then we got our own festivals.’ Spooky poured the remains of his whisky into his coffee. ‘And you know, I don’t think I’ve met a speculative fiction writer I didn’t like.’

They all nodded their heads to agree.

‘We’re the “what if” people,’ Tamar concluded. ‘And we’re all lovely.’

‘Well . . . you’ve all set me at ease on so many levels,’ Peter admitted. ‘I can’t thank you enough for that.’

‘One day you’ll do the same for some other aspiring writer,’ Denise sounded very certain about that.

Spooky drank down his coffee in one shot and gave a satisfied sigh. ‘So, have we got you all primed to get started on this novel of yours?’

‘As primed as I’ll ever be,’ Peter warranted. ‘If I can’t get this bloody novel out now then . . .’ He shrugged, considering there could be no greater motivation for him — he wanted into this club permanently.

‘We’ll just have to come and beat it out of you,’ Spooky’s gruff voice made that sound a real threat. ‘So get on with it, ’cause I want to read it.’

‘Me too!’ Denise chimed in.

‘Me three,’ said Fred, and Peter stopped breathing for a second. ‘If I find it to my liking, I’ll write you an endorsement.’

‘We all will,’ said Joe, as everyone nodded to assure him they would do the same.

Peter was speechless, as ‘thank you’ didn’t really begin to cover it. ‘I think I’m having one of your lucid dreams, Mr Books.’

‘Of course you are, Peter,’ he said. ‘What is life but one long lucid dream that we must also learn to consciously master, lest we become a slave to fate?’

Their group was the last to leave the café, which closed at 2 a.m. As Peter bid farewell to the writers’ group, it felt like he’d known them all for years, and he was already looking forward to the next time they met. Despite how many amazing experiences he’d had since he’d decided to follow the writing path, tonight beat them all! He couldn’t remember ever feeling this high on life, or even really feeling that he had a life to speak of, but the writers’ group felt like siblings to him and their company like coming home. When he’d lost Penelope, Peter thought he’d lost his foothold on his writing aspirations, but clearly Ms Whitman was only the gateway to a whole other world of opportunity and it was high time for him to move through that doorway.

For the ninth consecutive day Peter awoke from a disturbed sleep — the clock was the first thing he checked and it was past nine. He’d hoped to wake early and get cracking on his book, but due to the late night he’d slept longer than anticipated.

His thoughts reverted to his dreams. Another night of chasing Em around.

He didn’t remember much of it, but he did remember being in Em’s company and speaking with her.

‘Their attraction to me is not my fault,’ he recalled her saying at one point. ‘And it’s not me they desire but my talent.’

Peter dwelt on this a moment hoping to remember more of their conversation, but that seemed to be the extent of his recollection.

‘I need some of Fred’s techniques.’ He decided he was definitely going to chase that up.

Peter thought he’d done himself a great favour by splashing out on a new computer to write his first manuscript on, but a good part of his morning was wasted setting it up, and when finally he sat with a blank, open document page before him, Mrs Eddington arrived with lunch.

‘How is the masterpiece going?’ she asked before spying the blank page. ‘Well, Rome wasn’t built in a day. Perhaps some food will help?’ She set the tray down on the coffee table.

It was a little difficult not to resent her implication — only because it was a touchy subject with him at present. ‘I have more reading to do before I write anything,’ he explained. ‘I have yet to pin down my starting point.’ He’d realised this in only the last few moments. There was a vague idea of how it would start, but he really needed to sit down and finish reading the butler’s tale.

‘I’ll leave you be then.’ His housekeeper set his lunch and a cup of coffee on the table and withdrew with her tray. ‘I’ll leave dinner in the oven and you can heat it up at your leisure.’

‘Much appreciated, Mrs Eddington, you are a writer’s dream,’ he emphasised his appreciation.

‘Well, I had a good teacher.’ Her smile was tainted by sadness for a moment, as Penelope no doubt came to mind, but she cheered almost immediately. ‘It’s wonderful to have a writer back in the house — it just brightens up the energy of the place somehow.’ She shrugged and headed for the door. ‘Coffee’s hot in a pot in the kitchen, if you need any more.’

Left in the silence of the library, Peter sat himself down on the lounge and took a bite of his sandwich, which was incredibly tasty — some sort of seasoned chicken and salad. Then, brushing his hands clean, he reached for the diary of Henry Chesterfield. ‘Come on, Henry, give me something to work with.’ So far he had nothing. He’d read that the Lord of the Manor, Sebastian Fairchild, had been conscripted to go to war in June 1914, leaving his pregnant wife to run their estate. Peter was hoping that the Lady Fairchild was about to give birth to twins. ‘At least then I’d have a connection. And a plot would be nice.’

Notepad and pen at his side, coffee in-hand, Peter settled in to pick up the story where he’d left off.

As afternoon came and went, the pages of Peter’s notebook filled with characters, events, locations, confessions, accusations, horrors and secrets!

It was only a knock on the door that brought him back to his present reality with a jolt. ‘Sorry to disturb, we’re just leaving for the day,’ Mrs Eddington stuck her head in to advise.

‘Is it that time already?’ Peter noted he hadn’t looked up from the journal in five hours! ‘Whoa!’

‘Don’t forget to eat.’ She waved through the crack in the door and then quietly closed it again.

Peter looked through all the notes he’d taken. ‘Woo hoo!’ He was doing backflips on the inside. ‘I have plot, I have drama, murder, deceit, injustice, which may have all actually happened!’ The revelation shot through Peter and made him tingle all over with pins and needles — was this excitement or trepidation that he was feeling?

The Ems were hiding a secret all right, one that threatened to ruin them, and would have already, if not for the diligent and decisive action of their devoted servant, Henry Chesterfield.

‘This is incredible!’ A shocking and compelling tale had just been handed to him on a silver platter. Due to the controversial nature of the material, Peter could understand why Penelope might have delayed writing this story; it was not exactly in her usual vein. It would certainly take him so far beyond his comfort zone that Peter had to wonder, as a first-time writer, if he could do the story justice. Not that he had a whole story yet, only fragments that he would have to link together. Still, the beginning was clear now. Tomorrow, at long last, his writing life would begin.

A PERIOD PIECE

All at the manor house were already in mourning the evening that the Lady Fairchild went into labour; a telegram had brought the dreadful news of her husband’s death that very day. With not only the heartbreak of her loss to endure, and the agony of the birthing itself, her Ladyship was under the added pressure to deliver a male heir, lest the estate be ripped from beneath her and her unborn child.

Over the course of the war the household staff had been trimmed to a minimum. There was one live-in maid who also did the cooking, a groundskeeper from the village who tended the gardens, and himself, Henry Chesterfield, the once-head-butler of the Fairchild Manor, who now had charge of all the household affairs.

Chesterfield had been with the young Lord Fairchild since he’d first come into his inheritance four years earlier. He’d been hired for his smarts and been paid well to use them in his Lord’s service. During the war his role as butler had transformed into one that was more of an advisor. In fact, the Lord never referred to Henry as his butler or manservant, only as ‘my man, Chesterfield’ — as if he were a business associate. The Lady Fairchild also referred to him this way, and since she had taken sole charge of the estate, she’d leaned on him heavily for advice and he was proud to be so trusted and held in such high esteem.

He listened to the supressed, tortured screams emanating from the upstairs master bedroom, and dared not consider what would happen if the Lady of the house perished in the effort.

The housemaid, Mrs Beech, and a midwife from their little village, Sister Janet Cole, were in attendance. A doctor had been sent for from the next village, but due to the war, the few doctors left in the country had their hands full, and it was doubtful he would arrive in time for the birth. Still, her Ladyship could not have been in better hands as Sister Cole had birthed more children than any one doctor had. She’d trained as a medical nurse, hence the ‘Sister’ in her name — not to be confused with the many religious sisters who were trained midwives at this time.

The screaming from upstairs suddenly intensified. What was most alarming for Henry was that the screams belonged to Mrs Beech. As he scaled the stairs, compelled to make haste, the sound of a baby’s cries ebbed his panic slightly, but why was Mrs Beech still so upset?

‘This house is cursed!’ She was hysterical as he burst through the doors to find Sister Cole swaddling a crying child in a warm blanket. On the bed, the mistress of the house lay dead in a pool of blood.

‘We’re all doomed!’ It was the nature of the widowed Mrs Beech to pour on the dramatics; she was a religious, superstitious gossiper who saw the end of the world in everything! But if that child was a girl, her assertion would be quite correct in this instance.

‘Mrs Beech, calm yourself!’ Henry insisted, and turned to Sister Cole, who was looking decidedly cooler about events.

‘There have been a few complications,’ she said.

‘It’s the devil’s work,’ Mrs Beech insisted. ‘We must fetch a priest.’

‘Of course we shall fetch a priest!’ Henry bellowed to intimidate the housemaid into keeping quiet; his heart was breaking into pieces to see her Ladyship dead before him. ‘Speak, Sister, is something amiss with the child?’

Once the situation was made clear to Henry, he knew he had to act quickly in order to preserve the estate, but it was very difficult to think precisely with their housekeeper threatening exposure.

The sound of a car in the distance made the situation even more pressing.

‘That will be the doctor,’ Sister Cole warned.

‘Thank heavens.’ Mrs Beech was dying to tell someone of the day’s proceedings.

‘I will pay you very handsomely to hide yourself during his visit and not say a word,’ Henry proffered.

Mrs Beech gasped. ‘I could not in good conscience keep my silence about this!’

Before Henry could even consider ringing her pious throat, it had been slit by the scalpel of Sister Cole. The housemaid’s blood sprayed all over him as she dropped to the floor, dead. Horrified, Henry looked to the Sister who was still as calm as you please.

‘I imagine my silence is also worth a good deal to you and the young Fairchild twins,’ she said.

‘Twins?’ Henry was confused. ‘There is another child?’

The Sister nodded. ‘I know what must be done. I can help you, but that won’t be free of charge.’

What choice did Henry have, with two dead women in the room, and a doctor on the doorstep? If the doctor discovered the full truth of this day’s events, he’d assume it was Henry who slit the maid’s throat, not the midwife.

‘We can’t let the doctor up here,’ he decided, looking down at his blood-stained clothes.

‘Of course we can.’ The midwife dumped a pile of bloodied bed sheets over the dead maid and pushed them up alongside the bed where the pile just blended in with the already bloodied decor.

‘God help me.’ Henry was revolted by how casual the Sister was about taking a life. Mrs Beech wasn’t his favourite person in the world, but he wouldn’t have wished her any harm.

‘Believe me,’ the midwife defended her actions, ‘when the shock wears off, you are going to thank me.’

‘But the doctor?’ Henry was still a little hazy on the plan.

‘You bring him up here to see your Ladyship, and tell him I have the twins in the nursery. When the doctor wants to see them, you just tell him to wait here and come and fetch me.’ Sister Cole seemed to have it all in hand, but Henry was far from confident that they were doing the right thing.

It had all happened so fast and was snowballing rapidly. He was an honest and respectable man only a moment ago and now, in the blink of an eye, he was an accessory to murder. Still, if that wasn’t the case then he would be no one at all; he wasn’t a young man any more and there was a lessening need for a butler’s services. Sister Cole’s action meant he now had the opportunity to save the Fairchild estate for their heirs, as Sebastian had made Henry the executor of his estate.

Henry took pause on the stairs to compose himself. Above all else his duty was to his Lord, to whom he’d vowed to protect the Fairchild family interests, despite what may come. ‘I have this in hand.’ Henry couldn’t even consider the long-term ramifications of their actions this day, all he could focus on was getting through the next few hours.

When Henry answered the door he immediately apologised for his dishevelled appearance. ‘We are very short on staff at the moment, thus I was called upon to assist.’

‘I quite understand.’ The doctor didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I came as fast as I could.’

‘Not fast enough to save my Ladyship, I fear.’ Henry closed the door and led the doctor upstairs.

‘How late am I?’ The doctor kept pace with him.

‘A good twenty minutes. And only today we got word of my Lord Fairchild’s death.’

‘Oh dear heavens.’ The doctor was understandably stunned by the misfortune. ‘My deepest condolences, he was such a young man.’

Henry couldn’t respond but nodded to accept his sentiment ahead of opening the door to the master bedroom.

‘Where is the midwife?’ The doctor was obviously concerned by the state in which he found his patient.

‘She is in the nursery seeing to the twins,’ Henry explained as the doctor moved to examine the body. ‘Both born healthy, thank goodness. I believe she has already sent for a wet nurse.’

‘Twins, what sex?’ the doctor queried.

‘I know one is a boy,’ stated Henry, ‘of the other I know not, this all happened so quickly, you understand.’

‘Well, I shall have to examine them both in order to complete my records and their birth certificates.’ The doctor checked for vital signs, but determining there was nothing to be done, he covered the Lady Fairchild’s body. ‘We must ensure the young master Fairchild and his sibling receive their inheritance as losing both parents in such short succession is a most grievous tragedy.’

‘It is,’ Henry agreed, struggling to contain his own emotions on the matter.

‘Is there no other house staff to attend her Ladyship? Where is her housemaid?’ the doctor asked.

The question struck the fear of God into Henry; he was a straight shooter and unaccustomed to lying.

‘She was sent to the village for the wet nurse, and I do wish she’d hurry up.’ Sister Cole entered with one of the twins all cleaned and dressed in a pink gown and blanket. ‘I could use an extra pair of hands at present.’

‘Ah.’ The doctor brightened when he saw the screaming, healthy child. ‘This must be the second twin then?’

‘That’s right,’ Sister Cole confirmed. ‘The little master is snoozing in the nursery, so I thought I’d bring wee Mistress Emeline to see you first.’

‘Well, strip her down and I’ll examine her.’ The doctor moved to a lounge that was not covered in blood.

‘I just got her calm and warm.’ The nurse placed the baby on her shoulder, flipped up the nightgown, and pulled down the nappy to expose the child’s vulva.

‘A girl, confirm.’ The doctor filled out his paperwork. Then, with the assistance of the nurse, he checked the child over, without the child ever once leaving her arms. All the while they discussed the complications of the birth that had contributed to Lady Fairchild’s death. The doctor knew Sister Cole very well and did not doubt a word of her account. ‘Just having delivered these twins alive is, in itself, a miracle, Sister Cole, you have done the Fairchilds a great service this day.’

‘And I was glad to be of service.’ She glanced to Henry, who no doubt appeared as shell-shocked as he felt.

Satisfied with Emeline’s health, the doctor sent the Sister to fetch the boy child, who, she informed them, was named Emanuel.

‘You named the twins?’ Henry was a little perturbed.

‘Well they can’t just go around without names until you find the next of kin,’ she said in her own defence. ‘The doctor has to have something to write down.’

‘Well, Sister Cole did save their lives,’ the doctor awarded, ‘and she is quite right in saying that having a name from the get-go does avoid complications down the track, especially where estate is involved.’

‘Very good,’ Henry conceded that he might have spoken out of turn.

‘I shall fetch the young master.’ She exited the room once more.

Henry was glad of her assistance, but they weren’t through the woods yet, and he was rather relieved not to have to leave the doctor alone in the crime scene.

‘Will there be a service?’ the doctor asked Henry.

‘There’s no family on either side to come. It’s mainly the local folk that will be mourning, so it will most likely be a small service in the family plot for them both.’

‘So you shall be the guardian?’ The doctor seemed most interested to know. Had he already spotted the spare corpse in the room?

‘That will be for the lawyers to say,’ Henry replied diplomatically. ‘I know the Lord charged me with his financial affairs, but I doubt this instance has been allowed for. However,’ he ventured, ‘should I be given such a charge it will be my joy and honour to see it through to the very best of my ability.’

The doctor appeared reassured. ‘You are a good man, Mr Chesterfield, it is no secret that his Lord and Ladyship held you in high regard.’

‘Here he is.’ Sister Cole blustered into the room carrying a baby all bound up in blue. ‘Allow me to do the honours.’

As she unbound the blanket and raised the nightgown, the doctor was struck by the similarities of the twins. ‘My goodness, they are alike aren’t they? Completely identical.’

‘Not quite,’ the nurse dropped the front of the babe’s nappy.

‘I say . . . if I wasn’t staring at male genitalia at this moment, I’d swear they were the same child.’

Sister Cole fixed Emanuel’s attire, and rugged him up once more. ‘And he’s every bit as healthy,’ she boasted. ‘But a bit hungry, I’ll warrant. The wet nurse should be here at any moment.’

An examination validated the Sister’s boast and the doctor was content. ‘When I get back to town I will inform the mortician.’

‘We would be much obliged.’ Henry saw the doctor out, barely believing that they were not to be destitute, or thrown in jail. They’d have but a few hours before the morticians came for the body of her Ladyship, but that would be more than enough time to wrap his head around this disaster and bury it.

‘The first two thousand words, boom!’ Peter was ecstatic! He hadn’t raised himself in six hours, not even to make a coffee, but he’d discovered that place Penelope had described as the realm of the transcendental creative. Time and reality had melted away and his consciousness had been teleported to another world and life. ‘I was in it! I was there . . . being Henry!’ He was overjoyed with his effort, until he wondered if he could do it again. ‘I gotta eat,’ he reasoned with himself, despite wanting to dive right back in.

As his dinner heated up, Peter checked his emails and social media — he’d taken the advice of the writers’ group members and switched everything off while he worked. He was excited to accept the friend requests from the authors he’d met, and once he had, Peter discovered several of the group had left him messages. Fred Books, who went by the name of Food-slayer on his private page, had left him several links about lucid dreaming. Denise left him a note wishing him luck with his new novel, and Spooky Burns sent a message threatening all kinds of grievous injury if he wasn’t making progress.

‘Well, that’s all very encouraging.’ Peter couldn’t wipe the smile off his face; it was the perfect end to a perfect writing day — his first ever! Peter had always been a fairly unsocial person, and hadn’t had much use for social media before he’d got involved with Penelope’s promotion. It was perhaps a little sad that besides the writers’ group, he only had two friends on his page, one of whom was now deceased. The other was being fairly quiet. Gabrielle hadn’t posted anything on her timeline, or messaged him. ‘When she said she was leaving me alone, she really wasn’t kidding.’

It was the first time in several days that he’d given Gabrielle a thought, and when he considered all they had been through together, he felt a twinge of guilt. He really did appreciate all her support and understanding, but as he’d only just got the story flowing, he knew if he called her now he’d get distracted and only God knew how long it would take him to fully submerge back into the story once again. Billy’s caution about Em’s jealous streak was also playing on his mind.

‘But what if she thinks I really don’t care?’

Peter clicked his fingers as the solution dawned on him. ‘Flowers!’ He got online to have some sent to her first thing in the morning. He then sat down and typed up an email, and told Gabrielle about the amazing experiences he’d had in the past few days, including beginning his novel. He expressed how much he appreciated all her support, and vowed to take her to dinner anywhere she chose, once he had his first twenty pages.

It was ten o’clock by the time he returned to the library, which was feeling decidedly chilly. But as he wasn’t in the least bit tired, Peter decided to light the fire in the lounge and take his laptop in there to get a few more hours of writing in before he hit the sack.

As he returned to his story, it felt rather like he’d just paused a movie that he was now going back to. Despite the new blank page, his mind knew exactly what was to unfold upon it, and that came as a great relief. He tuned straight back into Henry Chesterfield’s psyche and placed his fingers on the keys to relay his account.

The Fairchild Estate, and what was left of the family fortune, came under the guardianship of Henry Chesterfield and that of the family lawyer. As it was agreed that the twins should be raised on their estate, their guardianship was vested in Henry until a next of kin could be tracked down. On account of the war, none were found living and after four years, as the twins were clearly flourishing, Henry’s guardianship became a permanent arrangement.

Emeline and Emanuel grew to be complete polar opposites. Emeline was assertive, outgoing and full of vitality. Emanuel was passive, extremely introverted, and was always more sensitive to illness. Yet in their passion for the arts and learning they were united. She loved music, singing, dancing and other sociable pursuits, like learning languages. He loved to paint, read, write and all the more solitary pursuits. Her Ladyship enjoyed fencing, and Henry had also become rather skilled at the art over the years as he was often called upon to be a sparring partner. The little Lord, on the other hand, had taken to archery, and often went off into the woods by himself to practise; but as he was a rather compassionate soul, he never aimed his weapon at anything living. Both the twins were schooled separately at the estate by various different tutors due to their varying interests. Emeline enjoyed getting out to socialise and to perform with her cello, but Emanuel never left the estate. The twins had taken to calling Henry ‘Chester’ — a shortened version of his last name, which had been too difficult to pronounce when the twins were young and the name had stuck as they got older.

The Fairchild family had made their fortune in cotton cloth production, which had been at its height the year their father, Sebastian, had come into his inheritance. But the years since his Lordship’s death had seen a steady decline in demand as cheaper imports from Asia had flooded the market and sent local cotton prices into a slump. In order to raise the Fairchild heirs as their parents would have desired, Henry had sold all but one of the mills, a large warehouse space located in the middle of the industrial area of the city. The land itself was now worth more than the factory it housed, so to avoid running at a loss, Henry shut down all operations, but had decided to sit on the investment as long as they were able.

It was just prior to the twins’ eighteenth birthday that the estate’s financial situation came to a critical juncture. Emeline had been offered the opportunity to tour with a quintet, and she was eager to take it. The position promised money and esteem, although initially she would have to pay her own expenses. When Henry outlined her aspirations to her brother, Emanuel claimed to be glad for her.

‘The problem is I don’t know that the estate has the cash flow,’ Henry told him. ‘We do have one investment property left, but as you are about to come of age I wanted to consult you before selling it, as I believe it will only appreciate in value.’

‘And where is this property?’ Emanuel put down his paint brush and looked to Henry — a sign of his genuine interest.

‘In town —’

‘Take me there.’ The Lord stood, appearing ready to depart that second.

‘You want to go out?’ Henry was a little startled.

‘Well, clearly, Chester, you are perplexed,’ he replied. ‘And I may advise you ill, without personal investigation.’

For years Henry had been trying to devise ways to get his Lordship out into society — invitations to events, parties, fantastic places — none of it had worked. He had no interest in other people, but he was rather fond of animals — they at least got him outdoors.

‘I’ll bring the car around,’ Henry advised.

‘I wasn’t aware we had a car,’ said Emanuel in all seriousness, but then he cracked a smile. ‘I’m joking, of course. I see my sister get in it all the time.’

‘I did wonder if you were aware of her existence,’ Henry joked, yet he was sincerely curious.

‘I do my best to ignore it, but now she has begun writing me letters, which I must say I prefer to her conversation,’ the young Lord warranted. ‘I can place a letter aside, but there is no off button when she starts talking.’

‘Well, she is making quite the splash in society,’ Henry said.

‘Good luck to her, if that’s what she wants. I prefer a more solitary existence.’

Neither of the twins had ever shown the slightest interest in the opposite sex; Emeline claimed she had no desire to be tied down by a man and Emanuel had no interest in human beings period!

So without any pomp or pageantry, the young Lord Fairchild made his first visit to the city, and as they drove through the streets he was fascinated. ‘What stimuli.’ When their car was stopped in traffic, he took snapshots with his box Brownie camera. Photography was also a strong interest with Emanuel but only so he could paint the scene later.

‘I hesitate to say I told you so.’ Henry pointed to a large warehouse up ahead. ‘That’s the old cotton mill there. Although with all this traffic, it may take us an hour to get there.’

‘Why is it so bad here?’ Emanuel wasn’t fazed by the delay as he could only take photographs when they weren’t moving.

‘Well this is a big industrial area, a lot of people work hereabouts, and as cars get more popular, it’s getting more congested down here.’

His Lordship fully understood the problem after twice around the block failed to find them a parking space. ‘Do we have the keys to the doors of the warehouse, Chester?’

‘We do.’ Henry caught his Lord’s drift and pulled up in front of the doors. He jumped out, unlocked the barrier, and then returned to drive the car inside.

‘Goodness, it’s an enormous space!’ The Lord hopped out and looked around. ‘You’d fit all the cars on the block inside here.’

‘And then some.’ Henry was inspired by the comment.

‘Then perhaps we don’t have to sell to make this space pay,’ Emanuel concluded.

‘I dare say there will be some cost involved in such a conversion,’ Henry ventured to throw a spanner in the works.

‘We’ll mortgage against the estate, and get my sister her travelling money into the bargain,’ he said decidedly. ‘We’ll hire someone to oversee the work here while you are touring with Emeline.’

‘I am touring with her Ladyship?’ This was news to Henry.

‘Well, of course,’ Emanuel insisted. ‘You don’t think I’d allow her to go without a chaperone, surely? And you are the only man I trust to keep her safe.’

‘I can see the wisdom in that.’ Henry resigned himself to the will of his charge — their future was in the young Lord’s hands now.

The decision to convert the warehouse into a car park did prove a sound financial move as there were few overheads to running the facility. Within a few years the car park had paid for itself, and when they added another level, a lift, and a large storage space on the top floor, it began to turn a serious profit.

Emeline was now the star of her quintet and a much lusted-after commodity. Henry, as her business manager, was kept very busy, and was not with Emeline the day she encountered a young woman named Alice Roy in the alleyway outside the stage door of the theatre she was to play that evening.

On the way to a rehearsal, Emeline exited her carriage and saw the young woman in tears on the back steps. When Emeline inquired after the younger woman’s woes, Alice explained she had been in the employ of the wardrobe department of the theatre production, which was still packing up their stage sets to transport to the next venue where the production was to run. She had been fired by the producer for not doing her job, but she claimed it was because she had rejected his advances.

‘Be off with you!’ The man supervising the load-out for the theatre company spotted Alice conversing with Emeline, and storming over he roughly grabbed the girl off the stairs and shoved her down the street. ‘Don’t you be wasting the Lady’s time with your lies.’

‘I’m not lying!’ The girl, once released, turned to confront him.

He grabbed her once more.

‘Are you the producer of this production?’ Emeline addressed the fellow, fearing he would hit the girl.

‘I am,’ he said proudly. ‘And she’s a liar, this one, which is why she is now unemployed.’

‘Oh, but you are mistaken,’ Emeline informed him. ‘Miss Roy now works for me. So, I would ask you to kindly unhand her before you give my lawyer just cause to sue you.’

The producer, stunned and angered, let Alice go. ‘You are making a mistake, Lady Fairchild, don’t say I didn’t warn you.’ He left in a huff.

Alice gasped, her tears falling anew. ‘Thank you.’ Clearly the girl was a little lost for words. ‘But why take my word over his?’

‘Because clearly you are the one who is telling the truth.’ Emeline smiled surely, and Alice returned the gesture, appearing a wee bit starstruck.

‘Well, thank you again for coming to my rescue.’ Alice backed up. ‘I shan’t detain you any longer.’ She turned to leave.

‘Where are you going?’ Emeline wondered.

‘I don’t know.’ Alice turned back to confess and forced a smile.

‘Do you not wish to work for me?’

The young woman’s eyes opened wide, and she gave a nervous laugh. ‘You were serious?’

‘Perfectly.’

Alice gasped her joy.

‘Are you trained in hair and stage make-up?’

‘Yes, ma’am — I mean, my Lady.’ Alice, although excited, seemed somewhat overwhelmed.

‘For some time I have been considering taking on a personal assistant. If you don’t mind a lot of travel, the job is yours.’

Alice was speechless.

‘I understand completely if you have family, or a husband —?’

‘I have no one, ma’am . . .’ Alice finally took a breath through what Emeline perceived to be a mix of joy and disbelief. ‘I have nothing to stay here for and would be honoured to work for your Ladyship.’

‘Then your home is now with me, Miss Roy, come along.’

With the tour turning a good profit, Henry could hardly object to their new employee. Miss Roy seemed a sweet girl, who was eager to serve and please her Ladyship for delivering her unto a new life far more promising and elegant than the one she’d left behind.

Very quickly Emeline and Alice formed a friendship that was far closer than that of a Lady and her employee. It was not Henry’s place to interfere in Emeline’s private affairs; he was grateful his mistress had found a companion younger than himself to socialise and shop with, as Henry was finding it harder and harder to keep up with his charge. He had his hands full just keeping Lady Fairchild’s suitors at bay, despite the fact she had publicly proclaimed herself married to her cello, as they made beautiful music together. One man in particular was proving annoyingly persistent in his pursuit of Emeline’s favours.

Dearest Brother,

Today I performed for royalty. Their highnesses requested a personal audience after the concert and we were invited to perform at the palace. The fee will be a very tidy sum, which our man, Chester, is negotiating with the King’s representative as I write. You can imagine how proud he is, as there could be no greater honour for a musician in his opinion. Personally, I am content to play for whomever finds joy in it; applause feeds my hunger for my art and drives me onto my next performance. To someone who could not care less whether anyone saw or approved of their art, I know you will consider my motivation nothing but attention-seeking insanity! Yet I cannot express how wonderful it feels to be so adored and celebrated. I can see you now, my brother, shaking your head, utterly appalled by the thought. You always were far more self-sufficient than I.

On the topic of attention, Chester gave Proudfoot my final rejection to his suit today. Lord Pettigrew may be a renowned collector of exquisite art, but I have no desire to be added to his collection. I feel his great patronage to the arts is most likely reparation for his complete lack of artistic ability. He has fashioned himself instead as an art critic, and fancies that a bad review from his pen might stop my career in its tracks — for the Lord boasts to have ended the career of many an aspiring artist, writer, actor and musician. If I were ever to be attracted to a man, it would not be one who boasts of destroying art and aspirations! The man revolts me, and I am sure you would loathe him immediately upon acquaintance. His most recent attempt to harass our dear, sweet Alice to furthering his cause with me is a step too far. Henry will see to it that he will not harass us again. I have never been so grateful to be of independent means, pursuing a career that I adore.

But I do miss you, Emanuel; I miss your serene presence and look forward to some quiet time with you in the near future. The rumblings of another war are concerning Chester, who wishes to see me return home. With a dictator in German parliament and Austria set to follow suit, he feels certain another world war is imminent. For your sake, and that of all young men, I sincerely hope he is wrong.

With great affection,

Emeline

Peter surfaced from a deep dream state to the sound of the phone ringing. He was up off the lounge and staggering into the hall before he was even in his body.

‘I would have answered it!’ Mrs Eddington shrugged, and left him to do it.

Peter grabbed the receiver to stop the blasted ringing echoing all around the entrance hall and foyer. ‘Hello?’ He attempted to sound awake in case this was a business call. Who it was would determine whether or not Peter chose to wake up.

‘They’re beautiful!’

It was Gabrielle, and she sounded really excited about something.

‘This is the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen!’

You sent flowers, Peter received the memo from his conscious mind. ‘Excellent,’ he replied, shaking his head to get his wits about him. ‘That’s exactly what I ordered.’

‘It was very sweet . . .’ She lowered her voice to speak more intimately with him; he assumed she was at the nurses’ desk. ‘Especially after receiving your lovely email.’

That’s right, you wrote an email too. ‘Well, I didn’t want you getting the impression I’m not thinking about you.’

‘You’d better not be thinking about me,’ she teased, just to confuse the issue. ‘You’d best be focused on that book, or I’ll never get to see you.’

Peter felt it a good thing she couldn’t see the smile on his face.

‘How many more pages until you get to twenty?’

‘I’m not too sure.’ Peter had fallen asleep while editing. ‘About four, last time I checked.’

‘Do you think you can accomplish four pages today?’

As Peter considered the query, he also saw flashes from the dream he’d been having. ‘I know what happened next,’ he uttered, surprised that he did.

‘So that’s a yes?’

‘Yes!’ Peter was so excited he just had to get off the phone and write it down.

‘Fantastic. I’ll see you tonight then.’

‘Yep, good deal,’ Peter agreed, not thinking about anything beyond getting to his keyboard.

‘I’ll come over after work, and as far as eating any place I like, I choose your place. Gotta go. Thanks again for the flowers.’

‘Wait a second. Gabrielle?’

The call ended before Peter could change the arrangement.

He set the handset down on its base, feeling uneasy. If he called back to explain why he’d rather take Gabrielle out, he might just stir up a rivalry between Gabrielle and Em that did not exist. Gabrielle had stayed here before without incident; but that was before Em had become Peter’s muse. ‘Well, I need another opinion on my work before it goes to Fabrizia, Em will understand that.’ He decided his need to seek a bathroom took precedence over all in this moment.

After a shower Peter returned to the lounge where he’d left the computer, and sat down before it feeling refreshed and ready to push on.

‘Before you start . . .’ Mrs Eddington entered with a breakfast tray, and setting it down, she noted his page count. ‘Goodness, you must be onto something.’

‘I am,’ Peter said surely, ‘although I’m not entirely sure where it’s all leading . . .’

‘Just follow the characters, Ms Whitman always said.’

‘I have a growing list of those.’ He held up his notes to show her.

‘I didn’t realise you were writing non-fiction,’ she commented upon reading the list.

‘What makes you think that?’ Peter was most curious.

‘Well, Reginald Pettigrew . . . and Em Jewel.’ She pointed to the name at the bottom of the list that had a question mark next to it. ‘They were real people. Well, not Em Jewel as such, as that was merely the pseudonym under which Lord Pettigrew painted. Was that the Em character you were talking about?’

‘Pardon?’ Peter had to laugh, after what he’d just read about the man. ‘Pettigrew was a painter? Seriously?’

‘Oh yes, a very famous one.’

Peter was both intrigued and perturbed to learn this.

‘Ms Whitman paid a fortune for one of his works, “The Lovers”, at auction,’ she informed him. ‘It’s hanging in the sitting room.’

‘Wait, what? An Em Jewel painting, hanging in this house?’

‘Yes, of course.’

With her assurance Peter was out of his seat, and headed across the hall. ‘I haven’t even looked in here,’ he realised, and opening the door he was taken aback. ‘Oh my God!’ It was the picture Penelope had described Nathaniel viewing in the studio in the first scene of her book. He felt like he’d just stepped into not only Penelope’s story, but his own as well. ‘Now this is really strange.’ The painting was so sensual, so beautiful, that Peter knew it had not been painted by the character Henry and Emeline had described. ‘What’s more, one of the subjects depicted in the picture looked remarkably like Emeline, although the figure equally could have been a man . . . and thus her brother?’

More research was needed. In the library, Peter found one of his research books — Art Adrift: A Crisis in Painting, 1920–1940 and Beyond — opened at the section relating to works of Em Jewel.

‘It was here all the time.’ He assumed Mrs Eddington had preempted his need, and he returned with the book to the lounge room.

As he ate his breakfast he read. The entry was more a critique of the artist’s work, calling Em Jewel a fresh, sensual escape from the cold modernist movement of the time. What was fascinating to Peter was the picture of Lord Pettigrew alongside his biography, which maintained he was indeed an art collector and critic prior to venturing into painting himself. Here was one of the characters of his story, a tall and otherwise unremarkable-looking fellow, with his nose high in the air. It was quite shocking to Peter, as he strongly suspected this ‘Proudfoot’ was a villain in his story.

‘This can’t be right.’ It hit home that the fanciful tale he was pursuing might well turn into an investigation. ‘This all happened eighty years ago.’ Peter doubted very much anyone would care; still, he couldn’t make accusations about a famous artist without having some kind of serious proof of a crime. ‘Well, at present this is fiction. It doesn’t have to be true, only feasible. Just follow the story, perhaps it is not leading where you think?’

Peter placed the art book aside and picked up the journal of letters to reference Emeline’s last correspondence with her brother. In this letter the Lady advised her brother that a situation had arisen that left her no choice but to flee her charmed life and go into hiding. She feared he might never hear from her again, and if these letters were anything to go by, Emanuel never did. Thanks to Peter’s dream last night, he now knew the cause of Emeline’s woes.

The secret the twins had been hiding, and the reason for the whole surreptitious affair surrounding their birth, was about to come to light.

PLOT TWIST

After the last performance of the tour, Henry had finally cleared Emeline’s dressing room of admirers and had gone to collect their fee from the theatre manager. He and Emeline were scheduled to head home first thing in the morning for a well-earned holiday. Alice was taking clothes from a rack and packing them into a chest, and for the first time since she’d begun her employment, she looked as if she took no joy in her work.

‘You appear woeful, Alice,’ Emeline noted in the mirror and turned about to view her. ‘Whatever is the matter?’

‘The tour is over, and so my employment with you has come to an end.’

‘But you have made a small fortune,’ the Lady made light of her woes. ‘You have earned a holiday, as have we all.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to go.’ Alice scowled at the notion.

‘We’ve been to so many amazing places, surely there is one you wish to return to and explore.’ Emeline turned back to the mirror to remove her jewellery, and Alice rushed to assist.

‘With whom? I am not fearless and respected like you.’ Alice removed the Lady’s clip-on earring, but brushed her hand gently against her mistress’s cheek. ‘I wish only to be with you.’

Emeline gently took hold of Alice’s hand and the young woman dropped to her knees beside her.

‘Please, take me home with you. There is no one else in this world I trust.’ Alice raised her large blue eyes to gaze up at her Ladyship. ‘There is no one else who I love.’

‘Alice, you are mistaken,’ Emeline insisted.

‘Do you not love me in return?’ Alice appealed, bravely.

‘I . . . I . . .’ Emeline was bemused by the query until Alice kissed her and she found herself unwilling to pull away. When their lips parted both women were smiling broadly at each other.

‘Please take me with you.’ Alice bit her lip.

‘That’s doing your job a little too well.’

The women gasped, shocked to find Lord Pettigrew had snuck into the room while they were otherwise detained.

‘No wonder you reject my suit time and again . . . you fancy women!’ He gave a half laugh, no doubt thinking that explained everything. ‘But that will all end once you are married to me.’

Emeline rose from her seat, furious. ‘When I threatened to call the police next time you shadowed my door, did you think me joking? Alice, run and fetch security for me.’

‘Yes, my Lady.’ Alice rose and moved past Lord Pettigrew, but he stopped her.

‘Her name is not Alice Roy.’ He turned her about to face Emeline. ‘Her name is Maggie Wright, and she’s an actress not a personal stylist. I know this, because I hired her from that theatre troupe you found her with. She and her associate put on a very good performance, don’t you think?’

The Lady was taken aback, mainly due to the look of guilt on the young woman’s face.

‘I gave him back his money.’ The young woman broke free of his grasp and turned to Emeline. ‘Told him I didn’t work for him, I work for you.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you thought your little story about my harassment would see you free of me. Good help is so hard to find these days.’ The Lord shoved her out of the way once he’d made his point and approached Emeline. ‘So you see she only loves you because I paid her to.’

‘It’s not true!’ Alice insisted as the Lord backed Emeline up against her dresser. Despite how hard she pushed him away, he held his ground, and reached up inside her skirt, his delighted expression transforming into horror. ‘What’s this?’ He felt her up and then abruptly withdrew. It took him but a second to process his advantage and grin with glee. ‘You’re a she-male, a freak!’ He looked to Alice, who was puzzled by his remarks. ‘Obviously you never got intimate with his Ladyship.’

Pettigrew turned back to Emeline to continue his snide assault, but was knocked unconscious by the empty champagne bottle she now held in her hand. ‘You should go,’ she said to Alice.

‘I’m staying with you,’ Alice insisted. ‘I don’t care what you are.’

‘I am going nowhere, I must cease to exist. When Proudfoot wakes up he will ruin me.’

‘I don’t care,’ Alice appealed, tears streaming down her face.

‘You’re a good actress, I’ll give you that,’ said Emeline, in a detached fashion. ‘I thought myself a fairly good judge of character — until I met you.’

‘No —’ Alice wept, no doubt sad to see her plans exposed.

‘But now I see that all mankind are truly rotten to the core.’

‘Oh dear Lord.’ Henry entered and seeing the situation and Lord Pettigrew’s man, Mr Hugo Perkins, waiting right outside the dressing room, he closed the door swiftly. ‘What has happened?’

Emeline looked to Henry with the fear of the devil in her eyes. ‘He knows. I must vanish.’

Henry’s puzzled gaze shifted to Alice, no doubt wondering if that was why she was upset.

‘She was planted by Pettigrew,’ Emeline said coolly.

Henry’s concerned expression turned hostile. ‘I told you to trust no one.’

‘Yes, you did.’ The Lady began gathering her things.

‘Dead folks don’t tell secrets,’ Henry suggested and Alice gasped.

‘The chances of getting out of here are already slim,’ Emeline appraised. ‘Do you really want to up the ante?’

‘Well, how are we going to get you out of here?’

‘I have an idea.’ Alice wiped the tears from her face.

‘And why would we trust you?’ Henry objected.

‘What choice do you have?’ Alice challenged. ‘Just help me get Proudfoot to the lounge.’

As Emeline and Henry exited, Emeline nodded to Mr Perkins and kept on walking, but Henry had a whisper to the gent. ‘You may wish to go get yourself a drink, your Lord may be a little while.’ He opened the door just enough for him to see Alice on top of the Lord on the lounge.

‘Oh yes, my Lord,’ she moaned as she writhed around on top of him.

Henry closed the door and bid the gentleman a goodnight as he made haste to catch up with her Ladyship and see her into a cab.

‘Make sure she gets away safely,’ Emeline instructed him. ‘Then you must go home, Chester, Emanuel will need you.’

‘And you, my Ladyship?’ Henry would miss her terribly.

Emeline smiled and then embraced her guardian. ‘All good things must come to an end, but it was fun while it lasted. Perhaps we shall meet again, my good man, you never know.’

Henry watched the Lady Emeline Fairchild climb into a cab and drive off into the night. That was the last he ever saw of her.

‘Oh my God! This is amazing!’ Gabrielle set the last page down on the floor by the fire where she had been lying to read, and sitting up, she looked to Peter appearing gobsmacked. ‘I mean it . . . it’s really good!’

‘Phew!’ Peter, who was seated on the lounge re-reading some of his research, wiped his brow. ‘Thanks for reading all that.’

‘Thanks for writing it.’ Gabrielle retrieved her glass of wine from the coffee table and climbed onto the lounge next to Peter. She held up her drink to him in gratitude and had a sip. ‘So is that it?’

‘Oh no, there’s more,’ he assured her. ‘I’m still a little hazy on the ending, but I’m sure it will come to me.’

‘You’re doing it!’ Gabrielle shoved his shoulder, excited for him. ‘You are officially a writer.’

‘Yep, I am.’ Peter was grinning so hard his face hurt; he was actually really proud of himself. ‘My father must be rolling in his grave . . . his son giving up a promising medical career to be a writer!’

‘It’s your life.’ Gabrielle shrugged and placed her glass aside.

‘It’s taken me a while to figure that out, but now I have, I actually feel like I’m living, and not just going through the motions of existence. I don’t know why I didn’t pursue writing after my parents died; I guess I felt I was already too far along another path, or that I owed it to them to keep going with nursing? Thank goodness I met Penelope, or I’d still be asleep at the wheel of my own life.’

‘Well, success sure looks good on you.’ Gabrielle moved in for a kiss. ‘Love your work.’ Their lips met and she melted against him, whereupon a disturbance shot around the room.

‘Did you feel that?’ Gabrielle sat back to look around. ‘What was it?’

It felt like an electrical wind had shot around the room, causing the lights to dim for a moment and it had left a vacuum in its wake that the open fire was still recovering from.

‘I don’t know, I missed it.’ Peter looked about warily, not wanting to suggest it might have been Em.

‘Do you think it’s Em?’ Gabrielle ventured, and Peter was stumped for what to say.

‘Is Grandma here?’ he asked, before realising the question rather answered her query.

‘It is Em!’ Gabrielle was delighted to conclude. ‘You think Em is jealous?’

‘Em has been known to be a bit protective of her creative channels,’ Peter admitted.

‘But according to what you’ve written, Emeline was a hermaphrodite who was more attracted to women than men,’ Gabrielle argued. ‘Or is your muse her brother? Is he a hermaphrodite also?’

Peter grinned. ‘I don’t know.’

Gabrielle shook her head, ashamed of him. ‘You are such a shitty liar.’

‘You’ll have to wait for the next instalment,’ he suggested, with a grin and Gabrielle attempted to hit him, but he grabbed both her arms. ‘I’m getting better at teasing though, you gotta admit?’

‘You are,’ she wholeheartedly agreed. ‘But you’re going to have to tell me what I want to know or I may get violent.’

‘Promise?’ Peter liked the sound of that.

‘Absolutely.’ Gabrielle moved closer and again the disturbance whipped around the room.

‘Aw, come on, Em,’ Peter appealed. ‘I’ve been working really hard.’

‘He has,’ Gabrielle backed him up on that, ‘and I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, I swear!’

All was still and quiet.

‘Do you think that means we’re okay?’ Peter asked Gabrielle for her professional psychic opinion.

‘No idea.’

‘Could you get Grandma to ask?’ Peter suggested.

‘Grandma’s not here right now, but if I were in any danger she would be,’ Gabrielle reasoned, stealing a kiss quickly to test the waters. When there was no retaliation, they both melted into gratified grins and pursued their desire with abandon.

It was not Emeline that Peter was following in his dream this evening, it was Emanuel. Peter sat in the back of a pristine vintage car, on a backwards-facing seat, opposite the Lord Fairchild. The vehicle’s windows were covered by curtains, and the Lord wore sunglasses and a hat to disguise himself. Emeline had always presented as blonde, but Peter suspected she wore a lot of wigs. Emanuel had dark hair, which he wore in a long crop, slicked back, but he was the spitting image of Emeline and might have been considered a very pretty young man, were his expression not so sour.

‘Society was bound to come seeking my sister,’ he was saying. ‘I had no choice but to sell the estate and vanish myself, lest we both be found. Not that I ever much cared for preserving the family honour, titles and so forth, as I would never marry and was bound to be the last of my name in any case. Thus, Chester arranged the sale of the estate and Lord Fairchild ceased to exist.’

The car came to an abrupt halt. The door opened and there was a dark-skinned woman standing there, with a snake wrapped around her neck like an ornament. ‘Stay away from my granddaughter.’ She leaned into the car, aiming the snake’s head in Emanuel’s direction.

‘Driver!’ Em backed away from the aggressive stranger.

‘Nobody will help you if you harm my kin,’ she drove home her conviction with her matronly tone. ‘Do you understand me?’

Em nodded.

‘You don’t be threatening my Gabby.’

Gabrielle? Peter panicked.

With a start, Peter awoke in bed to find Gabrielle seated upright beside him, holding her neck and gasping for air. ‘Gabrielle!’ He sat up to hold her. ‘What happened? Are you all right?’

‘I’m good.’ She regulated her breathing and calmed. ‘I don’t know what happened, but I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was going to suffocate!’

‘I know what happened.’ Peter climbed out of bed, to keep his anger away from Gabrielle. ‘This is a shitty way of showing your appreciation, Em! She’s trying to help you, just as I am!’ he roared, addressing nowhere in particular in the dark room. ‘Threatening my girl is not on! Do you hear me? Or I’ll bury your bloody story where no one will ever find it!’

‘Aw.’ Gabrielle had her hands clutched at her chest, admiring him. ‘Would you really do that for me?’

‘Yes,’ he realised, still angry at Em. ‘I absolutely would!’

‘Maybe it wasn’t Em?’ Gabrielle ventured to suggest.

‘I know it was.’ Peter calmed a little. ‘I was speaking with Emanuel in my dream, and a woman, who I suspect was your grandmother, appeared and warned Emanuel to leave you alone.’

‘Really?’ Gabrielle sounded surprised. ‘If it were my abuelita, you’d know it, as she always wears —’

‘A snake around her neck?’ Peter guessed and Gabrielle gasped.

‘Yes! Oh my God!’ Gabrielle appeared mind-blown. ‘If she really did enter your dream . . . you must have some psychic ability yourself.’ She waved him back towards the warm bed. ‘You’ve been dreaming about Em?’

Peter nodded, but stayed where he was. ‘Ever since we found the diaries. But I spoke to the writers’ group and they said it’s completely normal to dream about your story. Still, I believe threatening my girlfriend is going way beyond the boundaries of normal writer/muse relationship!’

‘Well, I’m sure Em gets the message.’ Gabrielle bit her lip. ‘Did Em actually confess to harassing me?’

‘Well no,’ Peter admitted, ‘but he didn’t deny it either.’

‘But according to your tale Em was something of a pacifist?’ It clearly made no sense to Gabrielle.

‘Maybe that changed after a few hard knocks? I should go on strike.’ He wasn’t ready to let go of his anger, but then considering the sad story of the painter, Fabian Donati, it may have been just such a protest that had seen his love, Isabella, to her grave.

‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ Gabrielle insisted. ‘I think that will just make you both miserable.’

‘I don’t care!’ Peter called out for Em’s benefit.

‘I do.’ Gabrielle climbed out of bed and began to dress.

‘What are you doing?’ Peter finally cast off his angst and softened his tone.

‘Well, it’s nearly sun up, so I should think about going home and getting ready for work.’

‘No, don’t go yet.’ Peter took hold of her to waylay her dressing. ‘Mrs E does a mean breakfast by the pool.’

‘Sounds wonderful, but I would absolutely be late for work then,’ she said with some regret. ‘Some day, after you finish this piece, I’ll come and enjoy that with you.’ She kissed him, and carried on dressing.

‘So I’m not going to see you until I’m finished?’ Peter felt he should object.

‘That’s right, so you’d best get stuck in,’ she teased, but as Peter was still most unamused, she explained, ‘Look, obviously this is very important to Em and to you. I’m happy to stay out of the way until you’re done . . . it’s not like it’s going to take forever. Look what you’ve accomplished in a week!’

‘All right,’ he agreed, ‘but at least let me make a coffee before you go. That’s the very least I can do after you were nearly strangled in your sleep!’ he snarled out at the house, and then looked back to Gabrielle.

‘I don’t scare easily,’ Gabrielle set him at ease on that count. ‘As you say, I have my grandma looking out for me. I’d be more worried about you, only I know Em needs you to finish this piece. Please don’t be mad at Em. There’s something very fishy going on; someone is lying, and you need to find out who.’

‘But, why would Emeline come clean about her darkest secret, if not to expose a great injustice?’ Peter posed.

‘Exactly,’ Gabrielle agreed. ‘Do you really think that beautiful painting on the wall in the sitting room was painted by Lord Pettigrew? If he was really Em Jewel then maybe it was his ghost haunting Penelope and her friends in the apartment —’

‘Holy shit, I hadn’t thought of that!’ Peter was excited and began dressing himself. ‘The apartment still exists, you know?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Gabrielle was suddenly concerned.

‘Billy Boyle told me where I could find it —’

‘No, Peter,’ Gabrielle objected before he’d even made the suggestion. ‘You must not, under any circumstances, go there without telling me first.’

‘I am telling you first,’ Peter pointed out.

‘Then it’s a date,’ she said. ‘Pick me up on the way.’

‘I thought you said I wasn’t going to see you before the story was done?’

‘That’s before I knew you were planning on walking into that hornets’ nest of ghosts,’ she specified. ‘I’m not letting you go there, knowing next to nothing about psychic self-defence. I’m coming with you and that’s that.’

‘Only if you bring your grandma,’ Peter agreed, ‘as she’s one scary lady.’

‘Yes, she can be a little over-zealous.’ Gabrielle grabbed her bag to head downstairs with Peter. ‘Can you wait until Thursday or Friday? They’re my rostered days off.’

‘Sure,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll have to do a little ringing around to find out how we get in there in any case. Someone might be living there for all we know.’

Gabrielle served him a knowing look. ‘No, for all we know, there’s no one living there.’

After coffee, Peter drove Gabrielle home. Even though he now owned a huge garage of pristine classic cars, Peter only drove the Aston Martin he’d been given, as he still felt like a custodian, not an owner. Once he’d finished his first novel, maybe he’d have the brain space to figure out the best way to honour Penelope’s great gift.

As soon as he was back at the house, Peter got back on the research case.

A search on Google Maps revealed the building at 4 Kismet Way was indeed still standing — just. The satellite image revealed the block was surrounded by construction fencing. On the street view a sold sign could be seen, the lower levels of the building still appeared as a car park, and the warehouse was still standing above.

‘God knows how long ago this image was taken?’ Peter was flustered when he considered they might have already demolished the building. ‘It’s the key to linking the stories.’ Peter scribbled down the name of the construction company and their phone number, but checking the time he discovered it was still before office hours. ‘Damn.’

He was tempted to just get in the car and drive down there, so he grabbed his keys, then stopped in his tracks.

In stories the hero was always making promises and then breaking them for some justifiable reason, whereby he’d do something stupid and fall out with his girl because of it.

‘Let’s just skip that subplot. I’m not that guy.’ He put down the car keys and took up the phone number instead.

‘What the hell?’ He figured he’d give them a try now anyway, as tradesmen started their day earlier than most.

Peter’s call was diverted from the office number to a mobile, which a fellow answered. ‘West End Construction, Steve speaking.’

‘Hi Steve. My name is Peter Lemond, I’m a writer and I’m doing some research into a property West End purchased recently at 4 Kismet Way. I was wondering if you’ve demolished the building there yet?’

Steve started laughing, although his laugher was not joyful, more ironic. ‘Are you a science fiction writer then?’

‘Not exactly,’ Peter replied, more than a little intrigued by the man’s reaction to his query.

‘Sorry,’ Steve controlled his amusement. ‘The answer is no, we have not demolished the building. West End has decided not to develop that particular site, but has re-listed it for sale, if you’re interested?’

‘I am.’ Peter felt this a great opportunity to get inside the building. ‘Is it possible to make an appointment to view it on Thursday? Or Friday, if that’s more convenient?’

‘I’ll give you the number of the realtor,’ Steve had another little chuckle. ‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to show you around the property.’

The Fairchild Estate was sold in 1939 to a property developer, who planned to demolish the house, sell off the assets and build low-cost housing. Henry felt he’d failed in his promise to safeguard the family estate, but as Emanuel pointed out, they were not the first stately family to be forced into bankruptcy. High taxation, and the tragic loss of aristocratic heirs in the previous war, had forced many landed families to sell their estates, most of which were demolished to make way for housing, golf courses and roadworks. The preservation of culture, history and art, took a back seat to industry, as the world, once again, headed into world war.

So what might have been seen as misfortune turned out to be in the Lord Fairchild’s favour. Emanuel was so antisocial, he had been diagnosed as agoraphobic long ago, so no one paid any mind to him selling up and relocating. The National Service (Armed Forces) Act was introduced later that same year, but Emanuel Fairchild would have been rejected for service due to his prior medical condition — thus there was no reason for anyone to seek him out. He was just one of a growing number of mentally ill people that no one gave a second thought to. The Fairchild car park facility was bequeathed to Em Jewel Holdings, a company set up by Henry Chesterfield in the wake of his dismissal from his Lord’s service. Henry converted the storage facility above the car park into an apartment for himself and his adopted, mentally ill son.

Henry kept to himself and ran his business honourably, although business was not what it had been before the war had started. People were looking to save money wherever they could, and paying for a car park was considered something of a luxury. Street parking had become easier, as fewer people were driving and buying cars, which for lower income city dwellers was also an unnecessary expense.

With the car park running at a loss, Henry knew that the nest egg they’d made from selling the family estate was not going to hold out indefinitely. Nor was Henry going to hold out indefinitely, as he was now pushing seventy. Emanuel had to find a means to make a living and survive on his own, and the most obvious route to this goal was to sell his art.

Henry had tried to broach the subject with Emanuel many times. Their warehouse apartment space was filled with artworks that Emanuel would never allow anyone to see. In all honesty they were probably a little provocative for public consumption and might even have been considered pornographic. Emanuel didn’t always paint in a conventional manner either. Henry had often found the young man covered in paint or chalk powder, rolling around on a canvas. Or naked, staring at his body in the mirror. Henry often quietly questioned the mental health of his charge, but then he saw the amazing artworks that resulted. The man was either going insane from his self-imposed, prolonged isolation, or he was an artistic genius! These pieces were verging on abstract, a style that was popular at the present. Henry longed to find out if Emanuel could sustain himself as a painter, but the artist was more interested in maintaining his anonymity and secluded life.

‘Absolutely no,’ Emanuel objected to having a gallery owner view one of his works.

‘But Miss Manning is highly respected for having an eye for new talent,’ Henry pursued the matter, and wasn’t backing down this time. ‘She is an artist herself, as well as a gallery owner, and she writes for several periodicals about modern art. She’s —’

‘After what happened to my sister, I cannot believe we are having this conversation. I do not feel the need to seek the approval of others.’ Emanuel set aside his brush to have this out.

‘You will soon feel the need when the debtors come calling,’ Henry scoffed.

‘You are the one who told us to trust no one!’

‘You don’t have to trust Miss Manning, only me,’ Henry stressed. ‘I will be your go-between.’

‘Once there is interest in my work, people will become interested in me and I do not want their interest! I am perfectly content as I am.’

‘But it won’t last!’ Henry lost his patience. ‘What will you do when I am gone?’

Emanuel shrugged. ‘Find my sister, I guess. Lord Pettigrew never did file a charge against her. I still write to her, and keep in touch.’

‘You need to be self-reliant!’ This was the point Henry was trying to make. ‘You know nothing of the real world.’

‘I read the papers. I’ve seen how the world operates through the experiences of my sister, I know enough to know I don’t want any part of the real world.’ Emanuel took up his brush again, thinking that was the end of the argument.

‘Well, it’s too late,’ Henry confessed. ‘I’ve already set the wheels in motion.’

‘What?’ Emanuel stood and tossed his brush aside. ‘What have you done?’

‘I took one of your paintings to Miss Manning’s gallery, so that she might assess it,’ Henry admitted, his courage waning as he witnessed Emanuel’s inner rage bubbling to the surface.

‘No one has the right to assess my work!’ Emanuel turned away from his elderly guardian and directed his anger into the void of the warehouse roof. ‘How could anyone possibly understand it?’ He paced back and forth for a moment and then looked back to Henry. ‘Which painting?’

‘The Lovers.’

‘No! That painting is not for sale!’

‘Calm down.’ Henry walked over to a covered canvas and revealed the work in question. ‘I didn’t sell it, I just wanted her opinion. Don’t you want to know what she said?’

‘Probably not.’ Emanuel moved to inspect the painting to ensure it hadn’t been damaged.

‘Apparently it is a beautiful blend of Romanticism, Impressionism and Expressionism, and thus gives a new and subtle form to abstract. Miss Manning adored the androgyny of the lovers, which she claimed would appeal to many of her clientele, as it was sensual and provocative without being vulgar.’

‘Hmm, well, there is many a painting here that she would not feel the same about.’ Emanuel seemed appeased by the appraisal.

‘She wants to see more,’ Henry ventured. ‘You choose what stays and what goes. But some of them have to go, because we are running out of space.’

‘But my name is on all of these, I don’t want anyone figuring out who I am, especially Pettigrew, who may still be searching for my sister. She is in many of the paintings, what if he recognises her?’

‘You could be a fan, she was very famous,’ Henry suggested.

‘A fan who just so happens to have the same name as Emeline’s twin brother.’

‘Then paint over your name with a pseudonym,’ Henry suggested. ‘Use Em Jewel, that should fit over Emanuel quite neatly, and I’ll run your cheques straight through the company in any case, which is willed to you, my adopted son.’

‘It’s dangerous.’

‘So is starving,’ Henry reasoned. ‘Besides, we left Pettigrew in Europe before the war! With any luck he’s been killed by now. We’ve heard nothing of him.’

‘Cockroaches will survive anything, they say.’

‘I’ve squashed many a cockroach in my time,’ Henry assured him.

‘But you are no spring chicken, Chester.’

‘Exactly the point I am trying to get through your young Lordly head!’

‘I am no Lord any more.’ Emanuel found his reason. ‘Another point you are attempting to highlight, no doubt.’

Henry put his hands together and applauded Emanuel, in a mocking, though affectionate manner. ‘Even if Pettigrew is still looking for Emeline, better that we draw him out now and confront the problem, than spend your life hiding from someone who many no longer exist.’

‘I like hiding,’ Emanuel said simply. ‘Without my solitude I cannot work.’

‘Then make a name for yourself, sell this place, move to the country somewhere and paint happily ever after,’ Henry outlined his vision.

As Emanuel considered the notion he appeared inspired. ‘That does sound rather like perfection. If we find somewhere truly remote, and have a garden and woods again.’

‘If you like.’ Henry didn’t mind. ‘Just let me aid to facilitate that ideal life for you, while I am still in my right mind and able.’

Emanuel’s smile was one of appreciation and understanding. ‘Then I shall take care of you, my good man, as you have taken care of us.’

Henry had parts of the warehouse partitioned off, and a storeroom constructed for the pictures they didn’t want seen and Emanuel’s art supplies. They then displayed all the works for sale on the huge high walls of the partitioned-in area. Emanuel could keep on working behind the scenes and hear every word Miss Manning said about his work, without ever having to meet her. Of course she made inquiries and assumptions about the artist as she viewed the pieces.

It did not escape Miss Manning’s notice that one of the subjects frequently featured in the paintings, bore a striking resemblance to the famed cellist, Lady Emeline Fairchild, who vanished and was never seen again. ‘The artist was a fan of the Lady Fairchild, perhaps?’

‘Such a handsome woman has many admirers,’ Henry warranted.

‘And who was the other subject depicted in The Lovers, I wonder?’

‘I couldn’t say,’ Henry lied; he knew who the other subject was, but he’d not mentioned his recognition, not even to the artist. ‘For all I know they might both be figments of the artist’s imagination.’

‘It matters little who the subjects are, it’s all about how these paintings make you feel. They express such beauty, balance, and freedom from inhibition, even gender! I would warrant that your reclusive artist is very comfortable in their own skin, very self-fulfilled.’

‘I couldn’t say, ma’am, as that is a condition of sale, the artist must remain anonymous.’ Henry gave her nothing to work with.

‘Well, your anonymous artist is featured in Axis Magazine’s current issue.’ She pulled the magazine from her bag and opened it to the page in question, and when Henry saw the article he went pale.

‘You had The Lovers photographed?’

‘I did it myself, as I wanted to gauge public opinion on the piece,’ she justified. ‘And so far the reception has been very positive. This periodical is exported overseas, it’s prodigious exposure that could draw buyers from all over the world.’

Henry was horrified and gratified at once, and expected Emanuel would be feeling the same way.

‘I’ll take everything you have hanging here,’ Miss Manning concluded, which inwardly floored Henry again. ‘And The Lovers, of course. Where is it?’

‘That one is not for sale. It has sentimental value to the artist.’

‘Even sentiment has a price. I simply must have it.’ She was very insistent.

‘Perhaps the artist could paint you another, very similar, for sale?’ Henry suggested.

‘Not for sale,’ she explained, ‘I wish to purchase it, for my private collection.’

‘Then perhaps Madam would like to be featured in the painting?’ Henry proffered and Miss Manning burst into a huge smile.

‘A portrait, oh yes! I shall make it the centrepiece of the exhibition. I gather your anonymous artist will require a photograph or two?’

‘That would, no doubt, be helpful.’

‘But I wish to be portrayed as androgynous as the original subjects were,’ she stipulated. ‘People have often said that I should have been born a man, so it shall be rather an ironic portrayal and a fabulous talking point. I know many a business woman who would adore just such a portrait. There’s just the matter of price?’

‘For you, Miss Manning, it is a gift from Em Jewel,’ Henry insisted. ‘To show our gratitude for your support in maintaining my client’s anonymity.’

‘Em Jewel. I can work with that; the name is as sexually ambiguous as the art. Although, I could have sworn I saw another name on The Lovers?’

‘Did you mention that name in your article?’ Henry was concerned.

‘I did not,’ she advised, with a reassuring smile. ‘Considering how secretive your client is, I didn’t feel any such disclosure would be appreciated. Furthermore, I feel we can use the mystique of Em Jewel to fuel publicity for the exhibition. But rest assured I can handle the press.’

‘There is one member of the press that my client particularly wishes to avoid.’

‘And who might that be?’

‘Lord Pettigrew,’ Henry stated. ‘Do you know of him?’

‘Yes, I do.’ The lady seemed none too impressed either. ‘He used his trumped-up rhetoric to make or break developing artists before the war. I haven’t heard much of him since.’ She had another thought. ‘Is Em Jewel’s resentment of Pettigrew due to the man’s harassment of the Lady Fairchild? I remember reading that she had taken out a restraining order on the man.’

‘Possibly?’ Henry allowed, as if he’d never considered the notion. ‘I don’t pry, Miss Manning. My job is only to ensure that my client’s wants are fulfilled.’

‘Well, that is now my top priority also,’ she avowed, sincerely.

‘Excellent.’ Henry was relieved. ‘We would appreciate you forgetting you ever saw that name.’

‘Fear not, good sir, I am the only one who noted it and it is already forgotten.’ She took a couple of steps towards the door and then turned back. ‘But I expect my portrait will be especially lovely,’ she spoke up, suspecting the artist might be listening in somewhere.

‘Em Jewel only gets better, ma’am,’ Henry answered, grinning at her cheek. ‘So, I feel that goes without saying.’

‘I’ll be in touch about the collection of the works,’ Miss Manning advised, as she departed. ‘A pleasure doing business with you, Em Jewel.’

Once she’d left the building, Emanuel came out of hiding. ‘Most well done, Chester. I quite like her.’

‘I thought you might.’ Henry beamed, proud of himself. ‘At this rate, your first exhibit will cover the cost of our move. We’ll shut this place down and hold onto it until the property market improves once again.’

‘A good plan,’ Emanuel warranted. ‘Finding a new home shall be a grand adventure.’

‘The idea of going out there doesn’t scare you any more?’ Henry was puzzled.

‘Not if my sister is free to come join us, no.’ Emanuel was feeling more optimistic. ‘To live beyond society’s distractions and judgements, in a place that I love, earning money doing what I adore, is that not every soul’s dream?’

‘Most people need companionship,’ Henry ventured.

‘You are my companion.’

‘In a fatherly fashion, but —’

‘I don’t relate to people,’ Emanuel resisted the implication. ‘And what’s more, I have no desire or need to relate to them. I see a beautiful woman, I feel nothing. I see a beautiful man, I feel nothing. No arousal, no interest, no love. But when I paint, when I write, play music, dance even, then I feel a passion, a compulsion and union beyond explaining. I treasure you, Chester, and when you are gone I shall mourn you, but I don’t need anyone to complete me. I complete me. That shall never change.’

Miss Manning was suitably smitten with her portrait, depicting her naked self embracing herself in a man’s business suit, but as both figures were androgynous as requested, she was fascinated by her slightly more masculine side. ‘I can see there are going to be commissions for Em, once people lay their eyes on this!’ She conveyed her opinion to Henry, upon the unveiling. ‘You’d be surprised how many men and women desire to be the sex other to the one they were assigned at birth. I feel this work will strike a chord, however private, with many.’

Thus, plans for Em Jewel’s first exhibition progressed well, right up until a few days before the exhibition, when Henry received a visit from an unexpected guest.

The arrival of the elevator on the top floor always warned of company. The door at the top of the fire stairs was kept locked from the inside on the top floor, so the only access for visitors to the apartment was via the elevator.

Emanuel made himself scarce and Henry opened the door, to find what appeared to be a young man, a little younger than his charge. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

The visitor served him a weak smile, before ripping the moustache from his face, and removing the cap so that long hair fell from it. ‘Do you not recognise me, Mr Chesterfield?’

‘Alice?’ Henry pulled her inside and closed the door. ‘What are you doing here? How did you find me?’

‘I followed you from the Manning Art Gallery.’ She clutched her cap with both hands, appearing anxious and uncomfortable. ‘I’m here to warn you that Lord Pettigrew is on his way here in search of your Ladyship.’

‘Well he won’t find her,’ Henry assured the young woman, who seemed to have aged beyond her years since last they’d met. ‘The last time I saw Lady Fairchild was the last night you saw her.’

The young woman appeared completely bemused and looking around she spotted the picture of The Lovers hanging on the wall. ‘Then who painted this?’

Clearly, she saw herself as the other figure in the painting, just as Henry had, but he was pushed to explain the coincidence. ‘Many people saw you together during your time in my Lady’s employ.’

‘Well, whomever the artist is, my husband wants words with them,’ she said, gingerly.

‘Your husband?’ Henry queried.

‘Lord Pettigrew,’ she sounded ashamed to clarify.

Henry was shocked. ‘You married the man?’

Humiliation on her face, she forced a smile. ‘But he never pressed charges against Lady Fairchild, did he?’

‘My dear Alice . . .’ Henry guided her to a table and into a seat.

‘I’m known by my full birth name, Margret, now. Maggie wasn’t to my Lord’s taste.’

‘He blackmailed you?’ Henry was far more concerned about this.

‘That’s how he always gets what he wants,’ she said. ‘That’s how he plans to exact his revenge on you and your Lady also. He’s waited a long time, plotting and scheming Lady Fairchild’s entrapment. He only kept me around because he thought my mistress might come back for me. He was convinced we were lovers, you see, and now he’s seen this painting his vengeful aspirations have been fuelled anew. Not due to any feeling for me, but because he is still obsessed with her.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ Henry noted a fading bruise on her cheek. ‘I never intended for the painting to be seen so far and wide, Miss Manning was a tad over-zealous in her initial aid.’

‘Whether or not this piece was painted by your Ladyship, Lord Pettigrew is convinced it was, and you can be assured he intends to destroy your new business venture. You don’t need to confide in me, I understand that you must despise me for my betrayal, but if your Ladyship is anywhere close, you must get her away before Pettigrew has the chance to expose her uniqueness. He has threatened awful things, from reducing her to a circus sideshow attraction, to whoring her out as the ultimate object of sexual pleasure, or killing her for the benefit of medical science.’ Tears were streaming down her face now. ‘You must keep her safe.’

‘You’ve no need to worry about her safety,’ Henry assured her. ‘You should be more concerned about your own. What if your Lord discovers your movements?’

‘He’s not here at present,’ she said. ‘I was sent ahead to a hotel in the city while he visits the country where the Fairchild estate once stood.’

‘He won’t find any trace of Lady Fairchild there.’ Henry wasn’t worried.

‘That is well.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘But I know he plans to be in town for the exhibition.’

Henry chuckled. ‘Well, he won’t get in; he’s been blacklisted from the event.’

Clearly, Lady Margret didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘He’ll be furious.’

‘Why did you come?’ Emanuel unexpectedly stepped into the gallery space through a small gap at the side of the petitions.

Henry was shocked that his charge would expose himself.

When their visitor laid eyes on Emanuel she gasped, instantly entranced by the sight of him.

‘Why would you betray your own husband to safeguard my sister?’

‘Your sister?’ Margret uttered as she stood to approach him. ‘But you are identical —’

‘Twins, yes.’ Emanuel wished to skip the obvious. ‘Answer the question.’

‘She used to write to you,’ Margret recalled. ‘You painted the picture.’ She felt this explained a great many things. ‘Why did you paint us as lovers?’

‘Why are you here?’ He insisted on asking the questions.

‘Because she is the only person in this world who was ever truly kind to me; I must make amends for my lie,’ Margret confessed, tears in her eyes.

‘Rubbish,’ Emanuel said coolly. ‘I think you have been sent by your husband to do reconnaissance, just like last time.’

‘Think what you like.’ Margret backed away from Emanuel — he might have looked like Emeline but he didn’t have her sympathetic streak. ‘I have to go.’

‘You are not going anywhere.’ Emanuel looked to Henry. ‘Surely, you see we can’t possibly take that chance?’

‘We are not kidnappers!’ Henry was utterly appalled by the suggestion.

‘It’s not kidnapping,’ Emanuel insisted. ‘From what Lady Pettigrew has said she will be safer with us than with her husband.’ He looked back to Margret, who was clearly wondering if Emanuel was threatening her or trying to protect her. ‘Does anyone know you are here?’

‘No,’ Margret insisted, looking down at her masculine attire. ‘I don’t dress like this for amusement.’

Emanuel cocked his head to one side, his eyes giving her the once-over. ‘I don’t know, I think the look rather becomes you. Actually, I’d rather like to paint you like that . . . may I?’

Margret relaxed a little, and smiled. ‘If I am to be held prisoner then, why not?’

‘Have you both taken leave of your senses?’ Henry objected. ‘If Pettigrew didn’t have cause against us before, he certainly will if you kidnap his wife!’

‘It’s not kidnapping if I stay voluntarily,’ Lady Margret decided.

‘You should check in at Lord Pettigrew’s hotel, Chester, and base yourself there until he leaves,’ Emanuel suggested.

Henry could see the merit in the suggestion. ‘I’m bound to bump into the man, so better I can only lead him back to a hotel. Miss Manning will keep all our other business details secret. But Pettigrew is not going to leave without his wife.’

‘I’ll write a letter explaining that I’ve gone sightseeing for a couple of days and you can have it delivered to reception at the Hotel Royal. Then at least he has no recourse to call the police.’ Margret seemed rather more keen on the idea of staying put now.

‘This could still all be a set-up,’ Emanuel warned Henry.

‘If it is, I swear I have no knowing part in it . . . this time.’ She looked from Henry to Emanuel. ‘But the man is a monster, make no mistake. I stay with him only to ensure that if he ever finds Lady Fairchild, she will have an ally to help combat him.’

‘My sister said you were an actress.’ Emanuel was still sceptical.

‘Hah!’ Margret found the notion amusing. ‘Not since before I met Pettigrew, and even then I was never very good. Why do you think I took up his offer in the first place? I had no other means to sustain myself.’

‘And now you have everything.’ Emanuel observed the large jewelled ring she was hiding under her shirt sleeve.

‘He sized it so tightly I cannot remove it.’ She demonstrated, frustrated by the appearance of it. ‘I am not his wife, I am his whore. Whom he has abused to the point that I am barren. I consider this a blessing, as I would rather die than bear his children.’ The young woman began shaking, and Emanuel’s stance softened.

‘Perhaps some tea, Henry?’ Emanuel guided Margret to sit once more. ‘If you are telling the truth and have done all you say for the welfare of my sister, then I can promise you sanctuary in this house.’

Henry’s head was telling him to put a stop to this madness immediately, but his heart melted as he saw Emanuel reassuring Margret. She was the first person Emanuel had showed the slightest interest in knowing. If there was any chance of Emanuel forming a friendship with another human being, Henry was not going to hinder that possibility, mistake or not.

CHASING CLUES

Words on paper was Peter’s top priority, but when the word flow finally stopped that evening, the scenes he’d written left him with many an epiphany to ponder. Not the least of which was the suggestion that Emanuel’s name may lie under the signature of Em Jewel on a painting in this very house. Was that why Penelope had paid a small fortune for the picture? Was it proof that Pettigrew was a fraud?

In the sitting room, Peter sat staring at the picture; the other beautiful, partially obscured, subject of the painting, was yet another true-life subject of his tale. What became of Lady Margret Pettigrew, he wondered? What became of Lord Pettigrew, for that matter? He was going to have to do some serious research now, as he was running out of journal entries and letters. Pretty soon he’d be at a dead end with no conclusion. If he wanted to find the ending to this story, chasing clues was the only way he’d find it.

So far his characters seemed on top of the situation, but having already read the last entry in Henry’s journal, Peter knew their luck would not last. As much as he wanted this tale to have a happy ending, this was not fiction any more; he was reporting the account more than creating it, and this fact sadly awarded him no control over the outcome.

In the warehouse, Peter was watching Emanuel paint. The artist turned to look at him, and only then did Peter realise that Emanuel was speaking to him, but he couldn’t hear a word being said.

I can’t hear you, Peter thought, but Emanuel continued his silent monologue, oblivious. He can’t hear me either.

An ominous feeling crept over Peter as the canvas Emanuel was painting began to stain black from the centre.

Peter wanted to warn Emanuel, but again he could only think the warning — he had no voice.

In horror, he observed a dark substance — like living liquid liquorice — emerge from the ever-expanding stain on the canvas and latch onto Emanuel’s brush to spread itself up his arm. The artist attempted to pull away, yet the darkness drew him in and oozed up over his chin; it gagged him and encompassed his head.

What the —?

Peter awoke with a gasp, he was panting and sweating. It wasn’t the nature of the nightmare, nor the feeling of dread it left in its wake that had him rattled. It was the fact that he couldn’t hear a word Emanuel was saying.

‘Why now?’ Peter was up and halfway to the shower — he needed heat as he was damp all over and freezing in the pre-dawn chill of the house. ‘We are so close to cracking this, Em —’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘Unless?’ He didn’t dare voice his thought out loud.

After a hot shower, Peter took a look outside, and as the sun’s rays were threatening to grace the sky, he found some warm clothes and headed downstairs.

He typed an update on social media, My dreamtime muse was literally gagged last night — should I be concerned by that? as he consumed toast and coffee in the kitchen, and emailed off the latest instalment of the story to Gabrielle.

To begin his research he moved into the library.

Three hours later, Mrs Eddington was bringing him fresh coffee.

‘Is it that time already?’ Peter placed his book aside, happy to see her — especially when he saw the generous piece of carrot cake.

‘Making progress?’ She set the tray down on the coffee table, then set the coffee and the plate of cake down before him.

‘Not so much today, but in general, yes I am.’

‘Back into the art books I see?’

‘Yes.’ Which reminded him. ‘Thanks for finding that piece on Lord Pettigrew for me the other day.’

Mrs Eddington appeared baffled. ‘Must have been a happy accident. While I was cleaning, perhaps?’

‘Oh,’ said Peter, obviously she didn’t recall the favour. ‘I’ve just been trying to research his death, but I can’t really find much about it, only that he did die, in 1951.’

‘I can’t help you with that one.’ Mrs Eddington headed out with her tray. ‘But Miss Valdez is on her way up the drive with some research for you.’

‘Gabrielle?’ Peter was surprised, and moved to raise himself. ‘I thought she was working today?’

‘Mr Eddington will show her in.’ She urged him to stay put. ‘I’ll bring some tea and cake for your guest, unless you think she would prefer coffee.’

‘I think tea.’ Peter considered Gabrielle was hard enough to keep up with, without pumping her full of caffeine.

Mrs Eddington left and a few moments later there was a knock on the library door and Mr Eddington showed Gabrielle in.

‘This is a surprise, aren’t you supposed to be working?’ Peter opened his arms to receive a hug and a kiss from her.

‘I took a few days off.’ She stepped away and grinned — all hyped up about something. ‘Penelope left me all that money, after all. So I thought I’d give you a hand with your research, and do something about some psychic protection for you.’

‘Oh really? I have been researching —’ Peter began.

‘Have you been down to the city council?’ she challenged.

‘Well no, I haven’t had the chance —’

‘Exactly. That’s why I took the liberty of doing that for you. I have information on the history of the apartment and the occupants — well, some of them.’

Peter couldn’t help but smile. ‘I really appreciate that, but did you read what I sent you this morning.’

‘I did . . .’ Her eyes parted wide in excitement. ‘Very interesting stuff. I trust you haven’t defaced your painting yet?’

‘No!’ Peter insisted he wouldn’t think of it, despite how tempting that thought actually was. ‘I shall pay a professional to do it.’

‘Initially, that may not be necessary to verify the story,’ Gabrielle advised. ‘I believe I’ve tracked down the copy of the Axis Magazine that featured a photograph of The Lovers before Emanuel painted over his name.’

‘Where the hell did you find it?’

‘Online. I’m having it posted to me.’

‘That’s rather brilliant of you.’ Peter had to admit he hadn’t thought of that. ‘You did all that this morning?’

‘And yesterday,’ she clarified. ‘You’ve got me intrigued, which must be a testament to your writing. I hope you don’t mind me just jumping in, I figured a lot of writers have researchers.’

‘No, it’s really great that you did as I’d rather be writing and not wasting time chasing clues,’ Peter realised. ‘But I doubt we’ll be able to see the signature on an old magazine photograph.’

‘Then perhaps we can have it digitally enhanced.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ll check it out. But how great if we could confirm your story.’

‘Good day, Miss Valdez.’ Mrs Eddington entered with her tray.

‘Mrs Eddington, you are an angel, I am starving!’

‘Enjoy!’ She set the tray down and quickly departed.

‘You’re so spoilt!’ Gabrielle moved Peter out of her path and headed to the lounge to take a seat before the tray.

‘I truly am,’ Peter gloated.

‘Which brings me to my present.’ Gabrielle ate a forkful of cake and then reached into her handbag to pull out a smaller green velvet drawstring bag.

‘You brought me a present?’ Peter took a seat and accepted the gift from her.

Opening it up, Peter pulled out a little statue of a seated skeleton. It was dressed in a green and gold robe, holding a scythe in one hand and justice scales in the other. It had a globe rested underfoot and an owl seated between its feet. Peter was lost for words; he would have been thrilled with it . . . when he was twelve.

‘You brought me a skeleton figurine?’

‘It’s not a skeleton,’ she corrected, pouring her tea. ‘It’s a consecrated effigy of Señora de las Sombras, the Lady of the Shadows, Santa Muerte.’

‘This is a lady?’ Peter couldn’t tell.

‘Never mock her, she is very powerful,’ Gabrielle warned.

‘Okay.’ Peter put the statue down on the table.

‘In Mexico, Santa Muerte is considered a powerful ally. She is the patron saint of those who have confronted death and lived, and to those who must confront deadly situations every day.’

‘Which I don’t.’

‘She is a spirit of second chances who avenges those who have been cheated unjustly and punishes evil-doers.’

Peter nodded, beginning to see her line of reasoning.

‘She is a benevolent benefactor, a performer of miracles, a spiritual mother and a source of unconditional love and protection.’

‘That incident the other night really freaked you out, huh?’ This was the only conclusion Peter could draw.

‘In the sense that I have not heard from my grandmother since you dreamt of her.’

‘But you said it wasn’t unusual for her not to come when you called?’ Peter was far from convinced that was cause for alarm; her grandmother was dead, after all.

‘But I was in danger and she didn’t check in with me.’ Gabrielle sounded genuinely concerned. ‘She would usually have been there to comfort me after something like that. There is definitely something amiss there. So, I constructed an altar to Santa Muerte and consecrated this item by praying her rosary to invoke her protection for you and her assistance for Em. Santa Muerte is also seen as a protector of homosexual, bisexual and transgender communities, or anyone discriminated against and outcast by society.’

‘That’s very generous of you, considering Em tried to suffocate you —’

‘No . . .’ Gabrielle said, and then shied away from saying more.

Clearly neither of them wished to openly disclose the fact that they suspected another ghost may have been involved. ‘Well, I’m no expert on Voodoo, but I must say this lady seems to fit the bill of our cause rather well.’ Peter changed the subject. ‘Although she looks rather more like the grim reaper.’

‘Her skeletal form reminds us of the need for muerte santa, or a holy death, fully confessed of sins,’ Gabrielle concluded. ‘And as someone in your story is telling fibs, I thought that might also prove helpful.’

‘So what am I to do with it?’ Peter gazed down at the little figurine.

Gabrielle picked it up and placed it back in the pouch. ‘Just carry it with you like a lucky charm, leave it on your desk while you work or by your bed when you sleep. She basically wards off evil.’ She set the bag back down before him.

‘Well, that’s a lovely thought.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But I think you are the one who needs protecting.’

‘I have one.’ Gabrielle pulled a pendant out from the front of her blouse and when she showed Peter the locket, he couldn’t help but be amused by the cameo portrait of a skull in a veil.

‘It looks like a portrait of your grandma taken after —’

Gabrielle thumped Peter’s shoulder. ‘Don’t say it.’

‘It’s very Guns N’ Roses,’ he allowed, his grin causing his face to ache, as he struggled to repress his urge to laugh. ‘I feel like we just joined a drug cartel.’

‘Well, marijuana is used instead of incense, to purify the air on her feast day,’ Gabrielle informed him. ‘And yes, she is the patron saint of drug runners, as they too are fringe dwellers in society.’

‘So I’m fringe now, am I?’ Peter reclined into the lounge with his coffee, and watched Gabrielle delight in her cake.

‘You’re certainly getting there.’ She scrunched her nose, and had another forkful of her morning tea.

‘Well, as you have your mouth full, I’ll tell you about my research, shall I?’

‘Do that,’ she urged, between mouthfuls.

‘I was looking for some information about Lady Margret Pettigrew, you know —’

‘Alice,’ she concurred.

‘I couldn’t find any mention of Lord Pettigrew marrying, and thus no mention of his wife, which rather checks out with Henry and Emanuel’s account.’ Peter made an on-the-spot decision not to tell her everything he’d dug up as that would spoil the story for her. ‘I did establish that Pettigrew was credited with being Em Jewel right from that very first exhibition. Even the gallery owner, Miss Manning, later attested to this, but it was the only exhibition of Em Jewel’s that the Manning gallery ever held. Em Jewel got himself a new agent-cum-gallery owner for his second and third exhibitions, before he died in 1951.’

‘On the subject of Pettigrew’s death . . .’ Gabrielle set aside her fork to pull a file out of her bag. ‘He was the owner, and was living in the apartment at the time of his death.’

‘I know how that came to be, Henry wrote of it in his last journal entry that I have yet to let play out on paper,’ Peter advised, as Gabrielle was frowning in question.

‘So you knew that already?’ She seemed disappointed not to have surprised him. ‘Well, hurry up and get writing, I want to know!’ Gabrielle didn’t appreciate the tease. ‘Anyway, as Pettigrew died with no heir, it was Pettigrew’s younger brother who inherited and leased the apartment to Penelope, Isabelle, Fabian and Billy, and when they moved out, it was leased briefly a few times before being put on the market. For the last fifty years it’s been passed from one developer to another, who have all abandoned development plans in favour of selling it on.’

‘It’s waiting for us,’ Peter fancied. ‘And maybe not in a good way.’ He placed his coffee cup on the table.

‘You scared?’ Gabrielle challenged.

‘Hell no, I have my protection charm.’ Peter took up her gift and kissed it for good luck. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’

‘You end up with no ending for your story,’ Gabrielle replied.

‘I don’t want to have to speculate,’ Peter agreed, ‘but Henry’s last journal entry was the day before the first exhibition in 1947. Emanuel’s last letter to his sister was a few days afterwards that same year. Meaning, I have but one more instalment to extract clues from, before I’m left to my own devices to draw a conclusion.’

‘Well, the next place I’ll hit is births, deaths and marriages, and see how much about the characters I can get verified there.’

‘Good plan.’ Peter held up a hand, and as Gabrielle served him a high-five he grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. ‘What are your immediate plans?’

‘To get out of your face and let you write.’ Gabrielle sat back up to finish off the last of her tea. ‘This visit was strictly business. Have you checked your posts from this morning?’

‘No?’ Peter was curious as to why she’d ask.

‘Food Slayer and Spooky Burns were offering to come over and help you un-gag your muse.’ Gabrielle grinned, no doubt guessing how blown away he’d be by that information.’

‘What? Really?’ Peter was on his feet and turning circles trying to locate his phone.

Gabrielle left a file on the table, and spotting Peter’s phone, grabbed it up along with her bag.

She distracted Peter from his frantic search to hand him what he was looking for. ‘Have fun.’ She kissed his cheek and kept going.

‘Wait? You don’t want to come to my lucid dreaming session?’ Peter thought she would, as anything supernatural was right up her alley.

‘Nah,’ she waved off the offer. ‘You’re protected now, so you can’t get in too much trouble. What day are we seeing the site?’

‘Thursday, about ten. I’ll pick you up on the way.’

Gabrielle gave the plan a thumbs-up. ‘See you then. I’ll just email through any info I dig up in the interim.’

‘Excellent.’ Peter was torn between seeing Gabrielle out and verifying her story on his phone. ‘Thank you.’ He found the post he was searching for as he caught her up, and seeing that she wasn’t pulling his leg about the offer of help from esteemed authors, he kissed his girl for the heads-up. ‘You’re a champion!’

‘Now, you be a champion, and get writing.’ She pulled away and let herself out the front door.

Emanuel wasn’t too sure what to make of Margret, but he did enjoy painting a living subject for a change, not just a memory, a reflection or a photograph.

Margret was slouched on a lounge beneath one of the large warehouse windows and sunlight was pouring down on her. Her long, straight hair was draped loosely about her. One leg was bent up and that foot was firmly planted on a large padded footrest before her, the other leg was stretched out and resting on the foot stool.

‘You’re frowning.’ Margret watched him roughing out the picture.

‘It’s not as balanced as my usual work,’ Emanuel warned. ‘Your Yang side is overpowering your Yin at present.’

‘Well, we can’t have that!’ Margret insisted, in a playful fashion. ‘How do we address this imbalance?’

‘May I adjust your attire?’ Emanuel suggested.

‘By all means,’ she granted.

‘If you would be so kind?’ Emanuel urged her to stand.

He dispensed with her coat altogether, unbuttoned her vest, pulled her shirt out of her trousers and slackened her tie. When he began unbuttoning her shirt, Margret caught her breath but did not protest. Once the shirt was unbuttoned all the way down, Emanuel stepped away from her.

‘Now sit, as you were before.’

‘Oh.’ Margret sounded a little dejected, but did as instructed and resumed her pose. ‘How’s this? Better?’ Her shirt slid off both sides of her body, leaving her scant breasts barely covered, and her tie fell down the middle of the exposed part of her torso.

Emanuel smiled as he observed her. ‘Spectacular. Now you appear in perfect balance.’

‘Like your sister?’ Margret suggested. ‘Perhaps that’s why she never needed anyone, as there was no mystery to either sex for her?’

Emanuel felt he knew what was coming. ‘You’re going to ask me if I am like her, a hermaphrodite?’

‘No,’ Margret assured him. ‘I already know that you are her.’

‘What would make you think that?’

‘Chester,’ she concluded definitively, appearing sorry to expose the masquerade. ‘He would never have left her Ladyship to find her own way, with war coming, especially considering her secret.’ Margret raised herself from the chair to standing as Emanuel stared her down. ‘That’s why you insisted I stay.’ She ventured closer. ‘Because you are still trying to protect me, even after what I did.’

‘You are mistaken.’ Emanuel held his ground.

‘This may be the only chance I shall ever have to express to you my devotion.’ Margret removed the shirt and vest altogether. ‘Please love me, as I have fancied you once did.’

‘I told you, you were mistaken.’ His words only confused her.

‘I know you have no cause to trust me,’ Margret allowed. ‘Love me and then kill me to ensure your secret is kept.’

‘No.’ Emanuel thought her words insane, and he picked up her clothes, attempting to cover her naked torso.

‘I would rather die in your arms than return to his bed.’

Her appeal thrust a dagger through his heart. ‘Hopefully, you shall have to do neither.’

‘Kiss me.’

‘No.’ He left her to dress.

‘Is it because you’ve never let anyone in?’ Margret asked frankly.

Emanuel paused from his retreat and looked back to her. ‘You’re a married woman, Lady Pettigrew.’

‘He never married me,’ she admitted. ‘He just stuck a ring on my finger for appearances and dragged me around everywhere with him, hoping to lure her Ladyship out of hiding.’

‘Is that not exactly what you are hoping to do?’ Emanuel asked. ‘You must understand that, considering your history with Pettigrew and what happened to my sister, I couldn’t trust you, even if I wanted to.’

‘What can I say, what can I do, to prove my loyalty?’ She appeared and sounded desperate. ‘I’d kill myself right here and now, only my Lord would pin my murder on you.’

‘You were wrong about why I asked you to stay,’ Emanuel said coolly. ‘Go home. Forget we ever met.’

‘Even I cannot guarantee I will say nothing to Pettigrew.’ Margret cooled also. ‘Torture works that way.’

Emanuel drew a deep breath. ‘Do you know what my sister used to call you in her letters to me? “Our dear, sweet Alice.” If she could only have seen what a deceptive little creature you are. I’m sure, like me, she would be completely bemused as to why you would go to such lengths to do her harm when she was so very kind to you?’

Margret’s tears had begun to fall right on cue.

‘If you love her, as you say you do, why seek her out knowing that is exactly what your “husband” has been waiting for you to do?’

‘Because I am weary of carrying this guilt!’ She sank to the floor. ‘I want to come home to the only place that was ever sanctuary for me. Perhaps together we can deal with my Lord?’

‘I am not my sister,’ Emanuel repeated for the umpteenth time. ‘I don’t want to deal with Pettigrew, or anyone else for that matter! If you have problems with your lover that is no concern of mine.’

‘Please,’ Margret appealed. ‘Let me right my wrong, so that I might be forgiven.’

‘My sister never held any malice against you for your deception. And would certainly not wish you to waste your life with her tormentor. So you are free to leave him if you wish. Your sacrifice serves no one; Emeline can take care of herself.’

Margret wiped her face on her shirt sleeves and finished dressing. ‘If you are in contact with your sister, tell her that I will prove my love, and she will know that I loved her truly.’

‘Don’t bother.’ Emanuel grabbed her by the arm and escorted her to the front door. ‘I cannot tell you how much my sister and I detest drama.’

He opened the door and deposited her in the foyer. ‘And if you ever tell anyone who Em Jewel really is, I surely will have your throat cut.’ He returned inside and slammed the door closed.

The Hotel Royal, where the Lady Pettigrew was staying as a guest, was abuzz the following morning with news of her death. Henry came downstairs for breakfast in the dining room, to find crowds had gathered to watch medics carry a covered body on a stretcher out of the hotel. Police were urging people to go about their business, except for Lord Pettigrew — who had finally made an appearance — he was being waylaid from check-in for questioning.

‘I just got here! And she’s not my wife,’ he was telling the officer. ‘Which part of I’m not married do you not understand? I’ve had trouble with this girl before, posing as my spouse and living off my credit.’ Pettigrew spotted Henry, who immediately headed into the dining room.

It wasn’t too long before Pettigrew came to seek him out.

‘I thought I recognised you.’ He approached seeming friendly. ‘It’s been a long time, Mr Chesterfield.’

Henry frowned as if trying to place him. ‘Oh yes, I remember now, you’re the fellow who was so fond of my Lady Fairchild that she moved continents to escape you. You seem to be in a spot of bother with the police this morning?’

‘A trifle, really.’ Pettigrew took a seat at the table. ‘Some whore I gave the time of day to once persists in going around posing as my wife and extorting money out of me,’ he explained. ‘Oh, that’s right, you knew her. She worked for your Ladyship for a time.’

‘Alice Roy?’ Henry was horrified, having only seen her yesterday. ‘What happened to her?’

‘Her real name is Maggie something-or-other. For some unexplainable reason, she decided to hire a room under the guise of being my wife, only to off herself.’

‘Off herself? You mean she —’

‘Indeed.’ Pettigrew passed a finger across his throat to concur. ‘She left a note, saying I have been holding her captive for years, and then cut her tongue out and suffocated on her own blood.’

Henry’s stomach turned, and he covered his mouth as he near brought up his breakfast. ‘Oh my God —’ What was she even doing here, when he’d left her with Emanuel?

‘I know!’ Pettigrew emphasised how insane he thought the situation. ‘I wasn’t even in town, so how could I have been holding the woman captive? Seriously. Rather coincidentally, I’ve actually been in the country looking at an estate that was erected where your Ladyship’s family home once stood.’

‘My Lord, I seem to have lost my appetite,’ Henry moved to excuse himself.

‘But I haven’t told you the most interesting part,’ Pettigrew waylaid Henry’s departure. ‘The developers had to relocate the Fairchild family cemetery before they built on the site. But when they did, they found one corpse too many. The police believe it to be the body of the housekeeper who vanished the same day that your Ladyship died birthing her . . . twins.’

Inside Henry’s panic began rising. ‘Mrs Beech.’ He had often wondered when she was going to come back to haunt him.

‘Naturally I was very curious to learn that the midwife who attended the birth was still alive. So I went to pay her a visit. She retired very comfortably for a woman of little means, something the police obviously didn’t think to question.’ He raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. ‘I must say Sister Cole’s faculties proved very acute when she spoke to me of that day.’

‘I would rather not reminisce.’ Henry stood, not to be toyed with.

‘You must have appreciated Sister Cole’s assistance during the birth very much, to have been paying her a retainer every month since.’ Pettigrew smiled confidently. ‘Anyway, you can take her off the payroll now, she died the very day I visited.’

Was Pettigrew implying he’d done away with her? And what else might she have told him under extreme duress? ‘Death seems to follow you everywhere you go.’

‘Then perhaps it is best that you depart.’ The Lord seemed content to let him leave. ‘But don’t forget to sign for your breakfast.’ He motioned to the bill folder seated on the table.

Henry retrieved the item, deciding to sign at the counter and give the bill directly to the cashier, rather than leave his room details at the table with Pettigrew.

‘If you want my advice, Mr Chesterfield, I’d be getting out of town rather quickly, if I were you.’

‘Sir, I feel that your talent for telling tales is wasted on me.’ Henry kept his cool, although he was fuming on the inside.

‘Who is Em Jewel, I wonder?’ Pettigrew posed smugly. ‘And why did your artist paint a picture of my lady stalker and the mysteriously vanished Lady Fairchild in a painting? I will find out.’

Henry forced a smile. ‘It seems you do have an imagination, after all.’

When Henry made it back to his room his heart was beating like he’d just run ten laps of the building. If Pettigrew had told the police about his payments to Sister Cole it wouldn’t be long before they would suspect that he’d been paying the midwife to keep quiet about the murder, and Henry couldn’t reveal the true reason for his patronage. No one would believe the nurse had done the killing, and even if they did, Henry was an accessory after the fact. He couldn’t protect Emanuel if he was in prison, and that would suit Pettigrew’s designs perfectly.

‘God damn that man!’ Henry poured himself a brandy and drank it down, hoping to recover his wits.

He had to assume Pettigrew would be keeping an eye on his movements — or paying someone else to do it — in the hope that Henry would lead him back to his charge.

‘Margret was telling the truth,’ he realised in retrospect. Had she killed herself to prevent telling Pettigrew anything? What if Pettigrew had killed Margret after he’d found out where Emanuel was and then staged his late arrival?

The thought struck the fear of God into Henry; as dangerous as it was he had to get word to Emanuel.

Emanuel had utterly refused to have a telephone installed in the warehouse as he considered it a useless, noisy distraction. Thus Henry pulled some paper from a drawer and began to scribble a note, but was overwhelmed by the thought of writing a full account of their woes. He’d never told his charges anything about their birth beyond the death of their mother, and it was not something to be conveyed in haste. Then he realised he’d already written a full account.

‘My journal.’ Henry kept it locked and with him at all times, but if he was arrested it must not be found on his person. He had to wonder now what had possessed him to write a full account of that day?

After the shock of it all, he’d needed to purge himself of the experience and for lack of a confessor, he’d poured the event out on paper. Perhaps the journalist in him secretly wanted some compelling reading in his memoir? Any sensible person would have torn out the pages and burnt them by now, or burnt the whole diary for that matter! Yet something had stayed his hand, be it ego or intuition. If he hadn’t refrained and kept the journal, he would have found himself with a far more daunting task in this moment. The risk was about to prove extremely fortuitous or utterly fatal.

Henry made one last entry in the journal and placed a ribbon marker on that page, and another ribbon marker on his account of the day the twins were born, then closed the journal and locked it. Once the item and its key were wrapped in paper and bound with string, he rang down to the hotel switchboard to request a delivery boy.

When the lad arrived, Henry checked the hallway to ensure no one saw him enter, and paid him handsomely to cut a route to his destination that was difficult to follow. He instructed him to take the parcel to the top floor of the building, knock and leave.

‘Then you must forget you ever delivered it,’ Henry instructed.

‘For this amount of money I’d forget my own mother,’ the young man assured him.

Henry stuck his head out the door to ensure the coast was clear and no one saw the lad leave.

When the delivery boy had gone, Henry poured himself another drink. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but then he wasn’t easily unnerved. ‘I should have listened to Emanuel . . . coming out into the open was a mistake.’

He’d always believed that only death itself would separate him from his charge, but he was too old to go to prison. He couldn’t kill Pettigrew, but he couldn’t give his nemesis what he wanted either, so this was a stalemate. Emanuel had to flee, but with Em Jewel’s first exhibition today, he was not going to like to be cheated out of his comfortable escape into obscurity, just hours before its realisation.

Miss Manning had already sold several of the paintings in pre-opening private viewings, and expected the rest to sell just as quickly.

It angered Henry that the promising careers of both his charges — and only God knew how many others — had been destroyed by one man, whose only ability was to find fault in the creativity of others. Pettigrew was a serial killer as surely as if he’d taken a knife and slit their throats; he took livelihoods away with one fell swoop of the pen. Envy was surely the ugliest of all the deadly sins.

The smell of the roast beef wafting through the house was driving Peter’s empty stomach into a frenzy. He glanced at the time, and only having half an hour before Fred and Spooky would be on his doorstep, he decided to knock off. He had no hope of getting the next scene out anyway, so best to wait for tomorrow. It would be interesting to see what his dreams would disclose this evening, for he had but one scene left and still no conclusion.

‘It smells amazing in here.’ Peter inhaled deeply as he entered the kitchen to find Mrs Eddington transferring roast vegetables into a serving dish, around the edge of a Beef Wellington. ‘You have excelled yourself!’

‘Just wait until you taste it.’ She placed a large lid over the server and popped the lot back in the oven.

‘All ready to go. The gravy is here.’ She pointed to a ladle and dish covered with foil before closing the oven. ‘The dining room is set. Dessert is in the fridge.’

Peter had to take a peek and found a large cheesecake topped with passionfruit. He was beyond grateful. ‘Fred will never leave. Thanks so much for all of this.’

‘You want to make a good impression.’ Her wink assured him it was no bother.

‘Bar is stocked.’ Mr Eddington joined them in the kitchen. ‘Plenty of whisky.’

‘Excellent, that’s Spooky taken care of.’ Peter could not have been happier.

‘Shall we wait for your guests to arrive?’ Mr Eddington kindly offered to stay and attend them.

‘No, I think it shall be a fairly informal affair,’ Peter said. ‘You go and enjoy your dinner, for we certainly shall.’

The wait for his guests to arrive was driving him nuts and he’d only been alone for ten minutes.

He’d checked the dinner, stoked up the fires in the lounge and dining room, and then browsed his messages to ensure his esteemed guests hadn’t cancelled. They had not, and his excitement soared, or was it nerves? There was such a very fine line between these two emotions. A year ago Peter wouldn’t have known that, as nothing much ever inspired him. Being constantly happy and motivated was a whole new experience! Every day brought some new and exciting adventure for him to challenge himself with. If he’d known following his passion was going to be like this he would have never allowed himself to get side-tracked. Easy to say when all the risk had been taken out of the equation by Penelope’s generosity. But Peter liked to think he would have quit nursing to pursue writing anyway. He was beginning to understand that his writing comfort may not have been why Penelope had left him her house. Without the clues Penelope had collected he wouldn’t have a story period. She must have been deeply conflicted about whether to hand over the tale; on one hand she wanted to aid her muse of many years, but on the other hand, there was a darker element at play within this particular tale that Penelope perhaps didn’t have the resources to deal with. That was quite possibly why she had wanted Peter to steer clear of Em’s story. Penelope was no stranger to esoteric doctrine and phenomenon, her library was testament to that. If she didn’t have the resources to deal with this, was Peter being arrogant to think that he did?

The buzz from the front gate security com startled Peter back to the present and he headed to the control panel located by the phone to let them in. When he got to the gate monitor, Spooky could be seen filling the screen.

‘Hello? Somebody called muse-busters?’ the horror writer asked in his broad Scottish accent as Peter pressed the button that opened the gate.

‘Come on down, gentlemen.’

Peter stood in the open doorway as the cab drove up — it was rather surreal watching two of his favourite authors ascending the stairs towards him.

‘I brought whisky!’ Spooky held up his offering.

‘As did I,’ Peter assured him.

‘Good lad,’ he awarded. ‘You have a fine future in my friend circle.’

‘Thank you both for coming. I really wasn’t expecting you to run to my aid.’

‘Not at all, I’m getting rather curious about this muse of yours.’ Fred paused to take a good look at the front of the manor. ‘I must say, this is not what I expected from a struggling writer.’ Fred looked to Peter. ‘Are we to discover that you are really Batman?’

Peter found his assessment very amusing, and standing aside he motioned them inside ahead of him. ‘I inherited this house, its stories and muses from Penelope Whitman.’

‘Goodness,’ said Fred, as he entered and looked about with heightened curiosity. ‘In that case I am greatly honoured, I’m a huge fan!’

‘I’ve never been here either.’ Spooky was also curious. ‘I met Penelope a few times, but she’d long since stopped giving wild parties by the time we were moving in the same circles.’

‘Yes, quite,’ Fred concurred, and with a deep inhale his smile broadened. ‘Smells fabulous!’

A unanimous decision was reached to forgo the tour until after dinner, so they settled straight down in the dining room. As Peter served up the roast, he explained his dreams, particularly last night’s, in more detail; omitting the part about Gabrielle being choked or her dead grandmother showing up in his dream the night previous.

‘Are you planning on attempting lucid dreaming tonight?’ Fred queried as he watched Peter place a large piece of Beef Wellington on his own plate.

‘I’d like to try.’

‘Then you might want to keep the red meat and alcohol to a minimum,’ Fred advised. ‘Neither will really aid your cause. In fact, the less you eat the better.’

‘Oh.’ Peter gazed at his dinner mournfully. ‘Looks like veggies and water for me then.’

‘That’s a bit bloody rough,’ Spooky objected. ‘I think Books is just making sure he gets a second helping.’

‘Not true. Just voicing my own observation,’ Fred defended.

‘I can’t imagine you ever forgoing food, period! How the hell did you make this discovery?’ Spooky challenged.

‘This tip was pointed out to me when I was first having difficulty lucid dreaming, and abstaining did make a difference.’ Fred poured gravy all over his serving. ‘I’d just stuff myself afterwards.’

‘I don’t mind, really,’ Peter interjected in the dispute. ‘Mrs Eddington will make me Beef Wellington any time I choose, but as I don’t want to see her efforts go to waste, anyone is welcome to my share.’

‘So there.’ Fred was happy to be vindicated as he tucked into his dinner, and groaned with delight at the taste.

‘You really know how to make friends and influence people,’ Spooky awarded Peter his due.

Peter shrugged, happy to oblige. ‘But do leave room for dessert.’

‘Ha-ha.’ Fred was ecstatic. ‘I’m never leaving.’

‘So back to your muse dilemma.’ Spooky cut into his food. ‘The dreams were fairly unthreatening until the last few nights . . . what caused the shift, do you think?’

Peter didn’t want to say too much on that subject, in case the walls had ears. ‘I feel my tale is heading into territory that perhaps one of the characters doesn’t want revealed.’

‘That’s a given in any story,’ Fred warranted, ‘or otherwise there would be no tale.’

‘What if your muse was a ghost and your tale turned out to be non-fiction?’ Peter looked from Fred to Spooky, who were both grinning with intrigue.

‘Then I’d say you,’ Spooky motioned with his knife-tip towards Peter, ‘might be in a spot of bother.’

‘Will it be enough to be able to become conscious inside my dream world?’ Peter postulated, only now realising his plan might fall short of the mark. ‘Can I seize control if I am not the only wilful participant in that world?’

Spooky raised his brows and looked to Fred to refer the query to him.

‘Well, it may be that what you are experiencing is more than just a dream state, it could be a paranormal episode,’ Fred advised. ‘But with any battle, in any world, science tells us that a lesser force will always give way to a greater power. And I’m not just speaking about physical strength. Mental, moral and emotional fortitude are essential for channelling willpower and energy. Intention and imagination are the great orchestrators of reality, in every realm of existence.’

‘So the only way I’m going to know if my will is stronger than my opponent’s, is to give it a go and find out.’ Peter was resolved.

‘Pretty much.’ Spooky paused for a sip of whisky.

If what Fred claimed was the case then this little experiment was a true test of Peter’s own creative ability. Even as a fledgling writer, he liked to think that he could out-imagine a man who, by all accounts, was devoid of artistic ability.

‘Now don’t be mistaken in thinking that entities without morals are naturally in a weaker position,’ Fred warned. ‘Pure evil takes a vast amount of imagination and willpower.’

‘A good point,’ Peter allowed.

‘I do know some paranormal investigators if you wish to wait for backup before you attempt a confrontation,’ Fred proffered, appearing a might concerned.

‘Thank you, but no.’ Peter didn’t want anyone getting wind of this story before he had a chance to finish writing it.

‘Protect the story first, personal safety second, I like that.’ Spooky held up his glass to his host before he had a quick swig. ‘But . . . that being the case, it might be best if at least one of us slept here the night, to keep an ear out for you.’

‘I have guest rooms,’ Peter was happy to advise. ‘You’d be welcome.’

‘Is breakfast as good as dinner?’ Fred queried. ‘Just kidding. I’m in.’

‘I love me a real live ghost story, so of course, I’m also at your service.’ Spooky got more comfortable in his chair.

‘So how do I stay lucid in my dreams?’ Peter picked at his vegetables; having rather lost his appetite he pushed the plate away. If abstaining would prove helpful, he’d rather starve.

‘Well, it’s not difficult really.’ Fred put his utensils down and took up his glass of wine. ‘Many of the practices that induce lucid dreams are routines that most writers already do as part of their normal work process. We focus all day on what we wish to dream about, i.e. our story. Which is perhaps why so many writers report dreaming about the book they are writing. Most likely our tale is what we are incubating in our thoughts when we fall asleep, and when we wake up we either consciously or unconsciously record what we remember. All these practices are recommended, and there are masses of information on the subject and an array of various techniques.’ Fred paused for a few sips of wine, then placed the glass aside. ‘But if you want the crash course, it might be simplest if I just tell you my favourite technique.’

‘That would be greatly appreciated.’ Peter sat back in his chair to listen.

‘Now some of this you probably do already as a matter of course.’ Fred snuck in a potato and another sip of wine. ‘Once in bed, I lay on my back, very still. I relax and allow my mind to drift into that half-sleep state and explore the geometric patterns and emerging dream scenes unfolding in the darkness behind my eyes.’

‘I do that,’ Peter concurred, excited.

‘But rather than completely submerging into the hypnotic hallucinations, I hold onto a thin strand of conscious awareness in my mind, while allowing my body to fall asleep. Now, if you do realise you are floating off, don’t panic as that’s when you get that “falling off a cliff and hitting the ground” sensation.’

‘I hate that!’ Spooky related. ‘Only I usually step in a pothole rather than do the fall off a cliff thing, but it pisses me off no end.’

‘But once you’re heading into a dream state, how do you navigate it?’ That was the part Peter didn’t understand.

‘By holding a picture of the scenario and characters I wish to explore in my thoughts, I walk my mind into the lucid dream, while at the same time reminding myself that I am dreaming.’

‘And if you lose hold of your strand of consciousness?’ Peter felt he might.

‘I have this rather neat little trick I do every time something is happening in a dream that I don’t like. I look around me and attempt to pick something up, or open a door. If I have no control, then I’m dreaming; once I realise that, my lucid dreaming facilities re-engage.’

After dinner and dessert, a tour of the house finished in Penelope’s garage of classic cars — fortunately his guests were too content where they were to want to take any of the treasures for a spin. The writers wound up back in the lounge in front of the fire, drinking whisky and coffee, until the wee hours of the morning, whereupon Peter showed his guests to their rooms. In all honesty, he didn’t think either of the men were going to hear anything once they hit the pillows, and so he was not counting on them to save him, should anything go awry with his lucid dreaming experiment.

FIELDWORK

It was late by the time Peter made it to bed, and although he had not eaten very much or consumed any alcohol, he wasn’t exactly on the qui vive either.

With his amulet of protection on his bedside table, Peter lay himself down on his back to focus on finding a calm, meditative state of mind. His thoughts were all over the place after an evening of stimulating conversation and company, and he was anything but focused on his story. When at last he did find his place in the tale, he focused on joining Emanuel in his studio. He was aware of other snippets from the day interrupting his inner vision, and every time they did, he pulled himself up on it and returned his attention to trying to seek his muse. Geometric patterns began to bleed through his attempts to focus. What were these colourful, intricate, animated mandalas that presented themselves before sleep every night? Was their purpose just to mesmerise one to sleep, and form a barrier between the conscious and unconscious? Or was it some kind of universal encyclopedia of knowledge that humans were supposed to be studying, and not casting aside as irrelevant metal static, in their rush to escape into a dream state? Whatever the case, tonight Peter made a mental effort to push past the kaleidoscope, which only brought the phenomenon closer in his mind’s eye and its colours grew more vivid.

I am dreaming, Peter told himself.

And so he was.

It was not Emanuel’s studio where Peter found his muse, but in the car, where Gabrielle’s grandmother had confronted Emanuel, only now she and her snake were seated beside his subject and there appeared to be no malice between them.

Again Emanuel was talking at Peter, and as before he couldn’t hear a word being said.

I can’t hear you, thought Peter, and yet he could hear the voodoo woman, reciting a prayer.

‘Muerte Protectora Y Bendita: Por la virtud que Dios te dio: quera que me libres de todos los maleficios y peligros y enferme-Que me des amigos y me libres de mis enemigos. Muerte Santisima, Muerte Santa, mi gran tesoro …’

Santa Muerte. Peter became aware of being in a dream state at the same time as Gabrielle’s grandmother became aware of his presence.

‘You can’t be here unprotected,’ she told him, most displeased. ‘He will get into your head.’

Who will? Peter wondered, as he felt the black ooze creeping over his shoulders from the driver’s seat behind him. He’d never checked who was driving the cab and turning to do so he found only a dark window, from the edges of which the ooze was emerging.

‘Que me des amigos y me libres de mis enemigos. Muerte Santisima, Muerte Santa!’ The woman chanted at him, as if trying to force the oppressive substance back. ‘You must escape now, while you can. Wake!’

But Peter was here and aware; he wasn’t going to be chased out so easily. I should have the amulet on me. Peter knew he’d left the statue to the right of him, and reaching out his arm he felt the velvet bag bump against his forearm and completely elude his grasp.

The ooze poured over him, blanketing his consciousness in its cold, weighty advance, blocking his sight, sound, smell, breath! Was this how Gabrielle had near been suffocated in her sleep? Was this still a dream or was he actually suffocating?

The panic woke Peter, and with a gasp, he sat up. It was a relief to be breathing. He looked down, and was shocked to find that he was dressed in his nurse’s uniform and seated in a chair in a hospital room. Had he fallen asleep on a shift? He looked to the bed to find his patient awake and smiling at him.

‘Have a big night, did we?’ the old woman asked, with an empathetic grin on her face.

‘Ms Whitman?’ Peter couldn’t believe how well she appeared.

‘How kind of you to remember,’ she said. ‘Well, get to it then.’

‘Are we writing today?’ He couldn’t recall where they were up to in the tale, it was so odd.

‘What do you mean, writing?’ She was so annoyed with him. ‘You’re a nurse, you fetch my dinner, take my temperature, that sort of thing. Stick to what you’re trained for!’

‘But our story?’ Peter was panicked again.

‘What story?’ Penelope’s frustration was mounting. ‘I haven’t written in years and don’t intend to again, EVER! Do you want to be jobless? Because you’re heading the right way about it. What makes you think I would consult with you on a book? I have hundreds of writer friends I could work with, if that were my desire.’

Peter could feel his heart pumping in his throat as he realised none of his dreams had unfolded. ‘I’ve learned nothing, written nothing! Gabrielle isn’t my girl. I don’t live in a grand house full of mystery. I don’t have an agent, or any writing friends . . .’

‘Just listen to yourself,’ said Penelope. ‘You’re dreaming lad.’

Peter woke with a gasp, sweating and shaking.

‘Peter?’

He felt someone grip his arm, and as he moved to retaliate, Peter recognised Spooky and refrained.

‘Whoa . . . it’s just me.’ Spooky crossed an arm in front of himself to block any further retaliation. ‘You’re dreaming, lad.’

‘Am I?’ Peter wondered, as he’d thought he was awake last time.

‘Well, no, you’re awake now,’ Spooky clarified. ‘How’d the lucid dreaming go?’

‘Great! I remember with blinding clarity that I got my arse kicked!’ Peter relaxed onto the bed then, with a second thought, looked over the side to see the green velvet pouch on the floor. ‘Shit!’

‘Do you want this?’ Spooky picked it up and handed it to Peter, who held it to his chest.

‘I had a nightmare that I was still nursing and none of this had happened.’ Peter rubbed his hand over his heart in an attempt to calm himself. ‘My worst fear for sure; my nemesis knows me well.’

‘And this goes on every night?’ Spooky turned a lamp on and blinded them both for a moment.

‘Pretty much.’ Peter sat upright and rubbed his hands over his face in an attempt to get fully conscious. ‘At first it was fine, I just had conversations with my muse, followed where it led. But the last few nights it’s getting more violent, both Gabrielle and myself have nearly been suffocated in our sleep.’

‘You never mentioned that,’ Spooky lectured. ‘Or I think we would have been considering this little exercise far more seriously.’

Peter shrugged. ‘Well, I’ve got to sleep.’

‘This far exceeds the normal author–muse relationship,’ Spooky stated for the record. ‘I’ve never had one of my nightmares attempt to kill me.’

‘Kill you?’ Fred entered, alarmed by what he’d heard. ‘What’s happened? Is Peter all right?’

‘I’m fine.’ Peter waved to assure his guest he was still alive. ‘Bruised pride is about all.’

‘I think you should definitely consult Fabrizia on this one. She has all kinds of connections,’ Spooky advised. ‘If there is danger involved she may be able to help you minimise the risk.’

Peter shook his head. ‘Not before I have the whole story, and I’m so close now, I must be.’

‘I believe our dear agent would tell you that no story is worth risking your life for,’ Fred stressed.

‘I can’t stop it now, even if I wanted to,’ Peter reasoned honestly. ‘The best I can do is hope to gain some control over it. You must promise not to tell anyone about this.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Fred concurred, but Spooky was not so quick to agree.

‘How much more of this story have you got to write?’

‘I’m speeding towards a climax.’ Peter shrugged. ‘Maybe a couple of chapters?’

‘Well, a climax usually means all hell is about to break loose, so I think we need to get a buddy system going until we’re sure you’re out of the woods.’

Peter was overwhelmed that Spooky would offer to keep an eye out for him. ‘That’s very generous of you.’

‘Not at all,’ he waved off the favour. ‘Besides, it’s all very interesting, and if anything happens to you, then I inherit a great story, so it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.’ He grinned in conclusion.

‘Do you want me to stay with you? I could go grab my computer and research —’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of putting you out like that. I have housekeeping here through the day, and my girl is here most nights,’ Peter insisted to set them at ease. ‘But I must say, you are both handling the fact of my ghost very well.’

‘Well, I’m Scottish.’ Spooky shrugged as if that explained everything; and Peter frowned, as it didn’t really. ‘There’s a ghost and a ghost story on every square inch of my homeland.’

‘But they probably never tried to kill you,’ Books imagined. ‘I’d feel terrible if something untoward happened and we had done nothing —’

‘I have protection.’ Peter held up the pouch in his hand. ‘Which I shall keep on me from now on.’

‘Well, I’m supposed to be leaving the country tomorrow for a book tour, so I don’t really have any choice but to hope you are right, Peter,’ said Books.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep in touch with our newbie,’ Spooky assured both Peter and Fred. ‘This book has caused enough fatalities. I advise you to proceed with the utmost caution.’

My dear Emeline,

Today is the darkest of days. Lord Pettigrew has Chester cornered in his hotel and is attempting to frame him for the murder of a housemaid, who went missing the day we were born. I have read our good man’s account of this day in his journal and I believe he is blameless of any crime, bar that of protecting our interests as he vowed to our father to do. Pettigrew seeks to trap me into disclosing you, we are sure of it. But that is not the all of it.

Alice Roy is dead, by her own hand they say. She told me she would prove her devotion to you, but I never imagined she would cut out her own tongue to avoid divulging information. It disturbs me deeply to know I could have prevented her death, which I suspect is precisely how her sacrifice was designed to make me feel. But her devotion to you has been proven, no doubt, although I understand you never asked for anything more than her honesty.

The exhibition is today, and I must flee. Chester won’t risk making any moves before I am safely away. If he doesn’t know my whereabouts then he cannot divulge that information to the police or to Pettigrew. I am to take his diary and keep it with me. If he is not arrested or blackmailed, he has designated a place to meet in a month’s time. Pettigrew has been sent the invitation to the opening that he’s been chasing, and so I must make my getaway while he is detained there. All my holdings are in Chester’s name and if he is arrested I’ll lose the studio and the one piece of land we have left. You’d think I would despise Pettigrew, but I can still only pity him — just as I could only pity Alice — seeking to be made happy through another’s art or beauty. To me this seems freakish behaviour, and yet I am considered mentally inept for not needing such drama to feel fulfilled?

I do not travel well, sister, as you know, and without Chester it shall be even more precarious for me. Why should I run, when we have done nothing wrong? A few more days and we would have been gone from here and back to the country to begin work on a new exhibition. If, by some miracle, Pettigrew is bluffing, or the police are slow to act, Chester may still manage to collect our share of the takings from the exhibition, and our escape shall be realised. I feel this is a naive wish, but I cling to it knowing Chester has always known best. Yet I would rather risk losing everything than have any harm befall our guardian, but I cannot get word to him. The next twenty-four hours shall be the longest and most telling of our lives.

Yours with all affection,

Emanuel

That was it, the last piece of written documentation that he had.

Peter had thought about translating the letter into a scene for the book, but quite honestly he couldn’t think of a more eloquent way to get the situation across than simply including Emanuel’s last correspondence. He liked that he’d included a couple of the twins’ original letters in the tale, even though he still couldn’t say whether or not there was any truth in them. Perhaps Henry and his charges had cooked up this entire story about Pettigrew to try to get the one-time butler off a murder charge? Maybe Penelope Whitman had cooked up this whole story and left little clues for Peter to find — just to see how creative he’d get with it? Whether this tale was true or false, fact or fiction, was still very much open to debate.

So what now? Did Peter continue writing in a speculative fashion, or wait and see if his visit to the apartment tomorrow, or his dreams tonight, unearthed any new clues?

If he ran with the assumption that the story was true, and Emanuel had planned to take Henry’s journal with him when he fled, then either the young Lord decided to hide the evidence and his correspondence in the storeroom at the studio before he left, or Emanuel never left the apartment, as these items were still there for Penelope to find a decade later.

But a more interesting question was how did Emanuel’s and Emeline’s letters end up in the same place? Did Emeline return and find her brother? Or was Margret correct in thinking that the twins were in fact the same person? Was that the great secret Sister Cole was paid to help Henry conceal? It was so indicative of Henry’s devotion to his duty that he would confess to being an accessory to murder, yet if his charges had been one and the same person, a hermaphrodite, he’d never hinted at the fact in his journal. What a master of deception Henry would have to have been to pull off such a scenario through the child’s formative years; yet he had surely saved his charge a lifetime of torment.

The death certificates of his characters would certainly shed a little more light on what had truly taken place the day of the exhibition. Peter could hardly wait to see what Gabrielle’s investigations turned up. But he wouldn’t be at all surprised if her search only turned up one death certificate for one of the twins.

With that thought, Peter checked his messages and was ecstatic to find one from Gabrielle — she had the magazine featuring The Lovers painting and was on her way over.

‘Perfect timing.’

If Emanuel’s name was on the bottom corner in the photograph then they were onto something.

It was moments like this that made Peter realise how much of a blessing Gabrielle was. If he was totally honest, the idea that she had never come into his personal life had been the part of his nightmare that had panicked him the most. She never judged him, doubted him, or tried to change him. In fact, she’d been his greatest support through this whole writing process. It was plain to see why his nemesis had found it so easy to convince Peter that his present life was just a dream as his destiny had taken a truly idyllic turn. Now, if he could just get through the night without being harassed in his sleep, life would be perfect.

The buzzer alerted him to company at the gate. On the monitor by the phone he saw Gabrielle waving at him from a brand new car. He pressed the switch to open the gate and she blew him kisses and waved as she took off up the drive, and Peter headed out to await her arrival on the front stairs.

She’d bought herself a little convertible hatch in a vibrant shade of lemon–lime. Nothing too ostentatious, yet it stood out a mile — much like the lady herself.

‘How do you like my new accessory?’ She appeared completely smitten with it as she climbed out, closed the door, and grabbed bags and folders directly from the back seat.

‘It looks good on you,’ Peter awarded.

‘I thought so.’ She grinned and headed up the stairs. ‘I wasn’t going to come over, but I thought you’d like to be present when we discover the truth.’

‘As chance would have it I’m at an impasse and would welcome your input,’ he assured her with a smile.

‘How fortunate . . .’ She reached him. ‘I have loads to share. Do you have cake?’

‘Passionfruit cheesecake,’ he boasted, hoping Fred had left some.

‘Mmmmmm!’

He wasn’t surprised to receive a kiss for that news.

‘Sounds good. Let’s get started then.’ Gabrielle moved off ahead of him, bubbling with excitement.

Peter couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off his face. To solve the mystery of the story would be something, but what really struck him in this moment was his first glimpse of the bigger picture, beyond this story.

Gabrielle loved chasing research, and he loved writing; in the long term their relationship might actually work. Personally, they got along great, their sex life was fantastic, but he had learned from Penelope that a writer’s life was insular, which usually resulted in the partner feeling locked out. But as his researcher and editor, Gabrielle was clearly as involved in his story as he was. She is the one. There was no doubt in his mind any more. He loved having her in his life, even if it meant living with all her deceased ancestors! After a few bouts with the supernatural himself, he now felt up to the challenge.

When Peter entered the library with afternoon tea on a tray, he found Gabrielle setting up her computer. ‘What are you up to then?’

‘Well, as expected, you can’t clearly make out the signature on the picture.’ She crawled out from under the desk after plugging in a cord. ‘So, I’ve scanned the image and downloaded a program that will zoom in and enhance the pixellation one frame at a time, which should give us a clear shot.’

‘You can do that?’

‘Yes indeed.’ She instructed her laptop to zoom in on the corner of the picture in question and ran the program. ‘It’s going to take a little while.’ She turned to Peter. ‘What’s news from the dream world? Did you see my abuelita?’

‘I did.’ Peter winced, not wanting to discuss it. ‘But I screwed up, I left the amulet on the bedside table when I should have kept it on me. Or so your grandma pointed out, after I was inside the dream.’

‘Peter!’ Gabrielle was disappointed.

‘You said, “leave it by your bed when you sleep”,’ Peter defended.

‘Okay, my bad.’ Gabrielle held her hands up in truce. ‘What else did Grandma say?’

‘Nothing much, she kept mumbling some prayer in Spanish, or maybe Mexican?’ Peter was no linguist.

‘Probably the prayer to the Most Holy Death.’ Gabrielle looked to Peter. ‘She only prays like that when someone is in danger.’

‘She seemed fine, and you see I am fine, so . . .’ Peter opted for a quick shift in subject. ‘What else did you find out? Let me guess, you couldn’t find a death certificate for one of the twins.’

‘I couldn’t find one for either of them.’ Gabrielle was frank. ‘Not really surprising considering the lengths they both went to to disappear. Both their births were recorded, but the cause and exact dates of death are unknown in both cases. People went missing throughout the war years; many deaths were unaccounted for.’

‘And Henry Chesterfield?’

Gabrielle dived into her folder and pulled out some hard copies of her data. ‘Henry died in prison.’

‘He was convicted of murder?’ Peter had become rather fond of Henry; as a guardian, the man had worked tirelessly all his life and Peter had liked to think the unsung hero of his tale had lived out his retirement happily in the country.

‘I know it’s not the ending you wanted.’ Gabrielle was sympathetic. ‘He was convicted of murder, and upon being unable to find any trace of the Lord and Lady Fairchild, or his adopted mentally ill son, he was to be questioned about their whereabouts, but he hanged himself in his cell before the investigation was approved.’

‘Oh damn.’ Peter took the old news articles in hand to look them over. There, in one of the articles about the case, was a black and white photograph taken of Henry before his arrest, and he was just as Peter had imagined. A working-class, older chap, Henry had a distinguished air about him that would have commanded respect. Yet there was also a kindness in his face, which made him appear a likeable fellow.

‘So, was Henry framed by Pettigrew? Or is Pettigrew now being framed by Henry?’ Gabrielle posed. ‘We shall soon find out.’ She was bursting with anticipation, and Peter was in complete empathy with that sentiment. ‘Thank goodness we have cake for the wait. No peeking.’ She diverted his attention from her computer screen to afternoon tea.

‘So tell me then, what’s your grandmother’s name?’ Peter thought to ask as they ate.

Gabrielle served him a questioning look.

‘Well, I keep bumping into her in my dreams, it might be nice if I could address her by name.’

‘Her name is Alejandra,’ Gabrielle informed him proudly. ‘It means la protectora.’

‘The protector.’ Peter felt the name suited her grandmother very well.

When Gabrielle’s computer chimed they were both up in a flash, it had gone into screen saver mode while processing the picture, so they could not yet see the outcome. ‘You ready?’ Gabrielle playfully stalled before touching the keypad.

‘Abso-fricking-lutely.’ The suspense was killing him.

Gabrielle swiped her finger across the trackpad, and in gold across the open picture file was written Emanuel. ‘Oh my goodness!’ Gabrielle gasped, not quite able to believe it.

Peter was quietly reeling in the exhilaration of vindication. ‘Henry is innocent.’

‘We have to discover what happened to the Ems.’

A power surge startled them both and they jumped back from the laptop, as the surge burnt through Gabrielle’s computer and it died.

‘Son-of-a-bitch! I should have put a protection spell on it too.’ Gabrielle’s comment struck the fear of God into Peter.

‘The manuscript!’ Peter ran into the lounge where he’d left his computer, and fell to his knees in thanks when he discovered he’d left it unplugged. ‘That wasn’t Em.’ Peter was convinced of that now. ‘There’s only one villain in this story, and I want to know how the fuck he got into this house. Don’t ghosts usually attach themselves to people or things? They can’t just dash about willy-nilly.’

‘It’s true.’ Gabrielle was breathing easier when she saw Peter’s computer was unscathed. ‘That’s the other thing I found out; Pettigrew died in the apartment, so he could have attached himself to anything, maybe even to Penelope, via Em.’

‘No.’ He was suddenly very certain of where the spectre was hiding out. ‘I’ll bet you anything that he’s attached himself to the bloody evidence.’ He stormed across the foyer and into the front sitting room.

Once inside the room Gabrielle focused inward to get a sense of the space they rarely used. ‘I’m no parapsychologist, but there is definitely something off-putting about this room, despite the fact that it is rather lovely. Hmm.’ She turned and left the room.

‘That’s all you’ve got to say? Hmm?’ He followed her back to the library where the horrid smell of fried plastic hung in the air.

She placed a finger to her lips. ‘Patience. All shall be revealed.’ She dug through her bag and pulled out a bundle of dried herbs. ‘I brought this for you, for just such an occasion. Call it a house-warming present.’

‘How is cooking going to help protect my work?’ Peter was perplexed.

‘It’s a smudge stick. White sage and lavender.’ She passed the item under his nose.

‘Lovely,’ Peter warranted. ‘But I still don’t see —’

‘Just trust me.’ She grabbed one of the emptied cake plates and some long matches from by the fire, then led him back into the sitting room.

‘Close the door,’ she instructed once he’d joined her.

‘That’s hardly going to stop a spectre escaping if that’s what you’re hoping.’ Peter was surely pointing out the obvious.

‘Not without a bit of fortification,’ she commented back. ‘Go and stand by the window, but don’t open it until I say.’

As disturbing as the response was, Peter did as instructed. ‘Is something adverse going to happen?’ He had a bad feeling about this.

‘Hopefully not,’ she made a bad attempt at sounding reassuring. ‘But if it works, we might both get a decent night’s sleep here.’

‘I’m down with that,’ Peter decided, as it meant she planned on staying the night — pretty brave considering what happened last time.

Gabrielle sat the plate at the back of the door, and holding the herbs over it, she lit one end of the bunch with a match and smoke began to billow out from the bundle, which she encouraged with gentle blows. She then took the smoking stick and traced a path of smoke around the door jamb. ‘Blessed Protector Death, that God has made Immortal, and the Queen of the Darkness Unknown hereafter . . .’ Gabrielle began to move around the room in semi-circular motions, from one side of the room to the other, steering clear of the painting over the mantelpiece while she filled every other corner of the room with smoke. ‘Protect this house and all that dwells within from evil, danger and sickness. And bring instead luck, health, happiness, prosperity and justice.’ Once a good heavy smoke hung in the air, she looked towards the painting. ‘May the spirits of this house be freed from their earthly woes and return to source —’ Gabrielle caught her breath when suddenly the painting shook. ‘Bring only friends to this door, and free us from our enemies.’ She fanned more smoke in the painting’s direction, and it shook harder.

Peter could hardly believe how fearless Gabrielle was — just like her grandmother — she wasn’t backing down. It was one thing to confront the supernatural in dreams, and quite another to do it in a fully conscious state; his heart was beating ten to the dozen.

‘Oh, Sovereign Lady! With your great power, which you have over all mortals and earth-bound spirits, I ask you to banish Reginald Pettigrew from this house!’ The painting gave one final thump and then all was quiet.

‘The smoke.’ Peter could see an invisible force disturbing the haze as it cut through it, doing circles of the room.

‘Open the —’ Gabrielle gasped, as the window beside Peter suddenly shattered.

‘Holy crap!’ Peter, dumbfounded, staggered backwards to where Gabrielle was standing. ‘That shit really works?’

‘The reaction was a little more adverse than I expected, but I feel we can assume the manuscript is safe.’

‘You were amazing!’ Peter hugged her, and she was shaking.

‘Well, show fear and you lose. Sorry about the window.’

‘Forget the window.’ He hugged her tighter, and her shaking subsided. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Mmm-hmm.’ She released him and flashed a cheeky smile. ‘Truth be known, I love it when weird shit happens.’

‘Well you kicked spectral butt today!’ Peter had to laugh about that. ‘Next time I encounter my nemesis in a dream, I’ll just threaten to send my girlfriend to kick his arse.’

‘Happy to be of service. But you’re learning; you didn’t freak out either.’

‘That’s because I was too freaked out to actually freak out.’ But Peter wasn’t taking the warning lightly.

‘I’m printing out what I have of my manuscript right now! I’m copying the file onto a memory stick, and locking it and the manuscript in the safe. Along with the journals and that magazine you found.’ Peter coughed, waving his hand about to encourage the smoke out the window.

‘That’s hardly going to stop a spectre getting to them, if that’s what you’re hoping,’ Gabrielle mocked.

‘Not without a bit of fortification.’ Peter was indeed learning.

‘It will be interesting to see how this event affects the state of play in your dreams tonight,’ Gabrielle posed. ‘We’ve got Pettigrew off your case, but have we got him off Em’s?’

‘What do you mean?’ Peter was confused. ‘Didn’t you just banish him?’

‘From this house,’ Gabrielle clarified. ‘I can free him to go back to source, but a spirit must choose to give up his earthly concerns and move on. Somehow I feel Pettigrew is not going to give up so easily.’

‘Well there’s only one other place that we know he’s attached to.’ Peter realised that Pettigrew would be waiting for them at the apartment tomorrow. ‘I think we’re going to need more of those sticks.’

That night when Peter sought his muse, he lay flat on his back with the effigy in his hand, rested on his heart. Gabrielle had insisted on sleeping in the guest room across the hallway as she didn’t want to disturb Peter accidentally as they slept. The doors between the rooms were left open, so that she could keep an ear out; although neither of them expected any life-threatening events tonight.

It was Peter’s intention to join his muse at the warehouse, but when he heard the sound of Gabrielle’s grandmother praying, he focused on that and found himself returned to the cab. Emanuel was staring at Peter with a concerned look upon his face, but when the Lord opened his mouth his speech was again mute, only now Emanuel seemed fully aware of his impediment. Peter realised he couldn’t even hear the sound of their vehicle’s engine, only the sound of the voodoo woman’s chant. He was there in the cab, and yet was also aware of lying in his bed.

Alejandra. Peter said her name in his mind, hoping to distract the woman from her prayers.

She raised her dark eyes to look at him, and he saw Gabrielle in them. Why are you here? she asked, as if she could not imagine.

I wish to speak with my muse.

The woman frowned as though he was a little daft. There is a malign spirit attached and repressing your muse, is that not plainly obvious?

I am protected now.

But your muse is not, that is why I remain close by. I was wrong about just who was a threat to my granddaughter.

Peter looked to Emanuel, noting how tired and drawn the young Lord appeared. But how can one spirit attach itself to another?

As he asked this question, the cab they were in began to stretch like a rubber band, and the seat opposite was drawn further away from him, along with his muse and Alejandra.

That’s a good question. She disappeared from his perception altogether.

This is my dream. Peter’s attempt to regain control of his dreamscape only resulted in his consciousness being sling-shotted back into his body, which reverberated upon impact.

‘Hah!’ Peter woke with a start — feeling like he’d just fallen off one of those dream cliffs and body-slammed on the rocks below. ‘Damn!’ He was about to get side-tracked by a rant on how much he hated these instances, but instead he scrambled for the notepad he’d taken to leaving by the bed at Fred’s suggestion. He switched on the light and endured the pain while his eyes adjusted, then spotted the pen, which he took up to scribble down his note. How can one spirit attach itself to another?

‘Are you okay?’ A very sleepy Gabrielle wandered over to check.

‘Absolutely fine.’ He was eager to switch out the light and try something else.

‘K.’ She blew him a kiss and returned to bed. ‘Call if you need anything.’

In his mind, Peter was poring over what had happened in the dream. It may have only seemed a short visitation but it had told him much. I am protected but my muse is not. If he was protected that meant his nemesis could not interfere with Peter’s will, only Em’s. And if his muse was not protected, that meant that her former guardian’s spirit was elsewhere, and elsewhere was somewhere Peter might obtain answers without interference. A new tack.

Lights off, Peter lay back down as before, and bringing to mind the photograph of Henry from the news article, he set an intention to meet with Henry Chesterfield.

The expectation was that Peter would find Henry’s troubled spirit still wandering the halls of the prison where he’d hanged himself. But instead Peter found himself in a field of wildflowers, illuminated by a half-light that had no definable source, bar the vivid colour of the landscape itself. It was a pleasant distraction, although a little bemusing.

Isn’t this what you imagined for Henry?

He knew that voice, although it sounded so much sweeter than the last time he’d heard it. Peter turned to face a beautiful young woman, who looked like a movie star from the forties. Penelope. She appeared exactly as she had in the photograph he’d found and posted on her social media page, only this vision was not black and white, but vivid colour.

Peter. She smiled to acknowledge his query. This is what I imagined for Henry too. She approached and took hold of his hand. So let’s go and see him, shall we?

You know where Henry is?

Of course, we’re old friends, he and I.

Peter was unsure if he should trust this happy turn of events, given he’d been told that Penelope didn’t want him to write Em’s story.

This tale was not something I could ask you to take on. She seemingly read his mind as he allowed her to lead him along by the hand. It was odd that he could feel her hand in his, and yet he was aware of his other hand hugging his effigy to the heart of his slumbering form. The day I first became aware of the dark character in this tale was the day I had my first stroke.

So it wasn’t Em —

No. Em has been nothing but a blessing to me my entire career. It was only when I attempted to piece together my muse’s tale that our relationship took a dark turn.

Around the time you bought the painting of The Lovers?

Penelope nodded. I adored that picture of my muse, and yet somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I always suspected that it was cursed. My life went into a downward spiral after that purchase. Yet I also knew it could be evidence, and I couldn’t bring myself to sell it on.

You did well to keep it. Your foresight is the only reason I have a story. I am so very grateful for everything you’ve done for me. Peter thought to say; even if this entire experience was just a figment of his imagination, in this spirit realm, that was the greatest superpower of all. You were the supportive parent I wanted and never had.

And you were the admiring, artistic child that I never had. She nudged a shoulder against his. You have come far closer to breaking this story than I ever dared. I could not be prouder.

A great weight was lifted from his shoulders in feeling his mentor was not against him in his quest. But I haven’t cracked it yet. Do you or Henry know what became of Emanuel?

Penelope shook her head, appearing sad about that. But Henry does have some information he is eager to share. She directed his attention to the cottage that had appeared before them in the field, and the fellow standing in the doorway of the dwelling.

May the muses bless you, Peter. Penelope turned to face him. But not every day of your life . . . so that you might have many wonderful memories, and not just stories, to take with you when you depart this world for the next.

This felt like goodbye, and all the sadness Peter had felt and repressed since the time of Penelope’s passing, came flooding to the fore.

Peter!

As Penelope, the cottage, the field and Henry, all vanished in a flash of light, he was distressed. No!

‘No!’ He awoke struggling and thrashing about. The light was on, and it was blinding. ‘Augh!’

‘Peter, it’s me, Gabby!’ She turned the light back off. ‘You were weeping.’ She rubbed his shoulder in a soothing fashion.

He wanted to cry out in frustration, yet he didn’t want to blast Gabrielle for looking out for him. He wiped his face to find he had indeed been crying. ‘I’m okay, but I have just made contact with Henry, I think, I have to go back.’

‘Absolutely.’ She caught her breath, perhaps in an effort to repress her urge to ask questions, and crept quietly out of the room.

Peter’s inner frustration made it a struggle to recapture the image of the cottage and its occupant.

Just let the angst go, he advised himself.

But I was right there, God damn it. He resisted his own best advice, still wanting to hit something.

Just grow up and focus.

Deep calming breaths brought his surging emotions into check and he got the upper hand on his discontent. Calm now, he mentally began to wade past his pre-slumber mental noise, towards his prior appointment.

That mental thread that one was supposed to hang onto when entering a lucid dreaming state, must have slipped from Peter’s fingers for a time, as when he joined Henry by the hearth in the little cottage, they were already deep in conversation. It was like his concentration had gone AWOL during the conversation and now he’d snapped out of it. Peter had no idea what Henry had already said. But he dared not question what he’d missed, as Henry was speaking about the genesis of this mystery — the night that Emanuel and Emeline had been born.

. . . unlike Mrs Beech, I saw no monster in my Lord and Lady’s child. I saw only the monstrous problems that lay in store for the newborn. Complete disinheritance, and a lifetime of shame and abuse for something my charge had no choice in.

Hence, twins. Peter caught up with the conversation; Henry was confirming that Emanuel and Emeline were indeed the same person.

It was a stroke of genius, Henry raised both brows to acknowledge. It was not mine, however. Twins was Sister Cole’s idea, for we had no way of knowing to which sex the child would feel affiliated. We expected Em would go one way or the other. If the male won out we had an heir to the estate, if the female won out we would sell everything and move elsewhere. But as my charge grew I realised that was not going to be the case. One day the child would wake as Emeline — feminine, musical and confident in every way, and other days Em was Emanuel — artistic, moody and withdrawn.

And this preference was entirely random?

At first, Henry recalled, constraining the concern that the memory obviously rekindled in him. But as Em grew, a way to control that preference was discovered —

The letters. Peter realised that was why the dates were all bunched together first from Emeline and then from Emanuel — as these were the times Em had to maintain either a female or male persona. It also explained why these letters were found with Henry’s diary, as they were never sent. They spoke of missing the other so much because it actually put that part of themselves at a distance.

Exactly, Henry concurred.

That’s brilliant. Peter was overwhelmed with admiration for Em and for Henry.

Em was absolutely gifted, to the point of being god-like. In ancient times hermaphrodites were not considered freaks of nature, but were the most holy, perfect balance of man and woman. Like genderless humans, they had a higher calling as they were not distracted by the base desires of the other single-sex beings. And this was certainly true of Em, whose only wish was to create great art simply for the pleasure of it. But Em was also very handsome in either persona, and that was the problem.

I’m sure there were many problems with raising such a child, Henry; you did an outstanding job.

Henry was shaking his head to disagree.

Henry, you gave your life to protect your charge —

But did I protect Em? Henry was clearly desperate to have that question finally answered. Did Em get away from Pettigrew, or see justice done? I don’t think so.

Rather than wasting time debating Henry’s virtues, Peter thought their time could be better spent. What happened the day of the exhibition, after you sent the journal to Emanuel?

In order to run a diversion for his charge, Henry attended the exhibition opening, and was warmly welcomed by Miss Manning, who reported a roaring trade and insisted on introducing him to all their big-spending patrons, and still others who wanted private commissions.

The exhibition was open for four hours and Henry spent three and a half of those hours sweating on Pettigrew to arrive.

The Lord made quiet the hurrah of his arrival when he finally did make an appearance, walking into the room and exclaiming. ‘Marvellous! This is just how I would have it!’

‘Our critic friend sounds impressed,’ Miss Manning uttered aside to Henry. ‘Perhaps he’ll prove worth inviting after all?’

Then four policemen entered the function after Pettigrew, who’d spotted Henry and was pointing in his direction. ‘There he is, Henry Chesterfield, my agent.’

There was a huge gasp of shock from everyone in the room, but none so great as that of Miss Manning, who turned to Henry. ‘Is this true?’ She appeared betrayed. ‘Is this man Em Jewel?’

Henry was overwhelmed. ‘Of course not. My client would never reveal himself.’

‘Oh, really?’ The Lord made a beeline in their direction. ‘I think he would reveal himself if he discovered that he was being swindled by a suspected murderer! Using my hard-earned funds to pay off the woman blackmailing you for her silence.’

‘This is madness!’ Henry insisted. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. This is not my client.’

‘If I am not Em Jewel, then tell me why I am the other signatory and your partner in Em Jewel Holdings, who will inherit everything upon your death.’ He held up a document that appeared to be quite an adept forgery — even Henry’s own signature was perfect.

How many people had this man bribed or bullied to produce a document that had the address of the studio written upon it? He could only hope that Pettigrew had not yet had the opportunity to visit there. Regardless, this was checkmate for Henry. If he denied the document as forgery, they’d ask to see the original and that would lead to questions about Emanuel. If he didn’t deny it, Emanuel might make a clean escape. Henry’s past would no doubt come to light when he was investigated, but he wasn’t going to help the process along. ‘Then it must be true.’

Pettigrew’s challenging expression turned to pure elation. ‘Now that we are clear that Miss Manning can settle Em Jewel Holdings’ accounts with me this afternoon . . .’

Miss Manning served the critic the evil-eye, perhaps suspecting something untoward was going on.

Henry had made her swear never to reveal the name on the painting he’d first shown her, and he looked to her, praying to God she did not mention it now. In her eyes he saw an appeal; she knew the truth and wanted to voice it for his sake, but he shook his head to beseech her silence.

‘I shall bid you farewell, Mr Chesterfield, and allow these good officers to do their duty.’ Pettigrew stepped out of their path. ‘Your services as my agent are hereby terminated.’

‘This exhibition is hereby terminated.’ Miss Manning was infuriated by the entire affair. ‘You’ll get no commissions from me.’

‘Em Jewel doesn’t do commissions.’ Pettigrew looked up to her portrait hanging in pride of place. ‘You have the honour of being the only one.’

‘I’d like to see you reproduce it,’ she replied with such spite it made her voice hoarse.

‘As I said,’ Pettigrew declined the challenge, ‘this will be the only one.’

‘Henry Chesterfield?’ One of the policemen waited for Henry to confirm, before he was cuffed, read his rights and led away. Pettigrew was looking pretty damn pleased with his day’s work, the cunning and depraved depths of the man were completely beyond Henry’s comprehension. He was never going to see his beloved charge again and that thought struck a dagger through the old man’s heart. In every sense bar the birthing, Em was Henry’s child. And like any loving parent, under the same circumstance, he felt no concern for what lay ahead in his future, his only desire was that Em escaped.

ANTI-CLIMAX

‘There you are.’ Gabrielle entered the library, sounding drowsy and yawning. ‘How long have you been up?’

‘I just wanted to get this scene down while it was still fresh in my head.’ Peter pushed the computer away, having read it through twice already.

‘You said last night that you saw Henry?’ Gabrielle sat on his lap and began scrolling back up to the beginning of the scene.

‘He doesn’t know what became of Em either.’

‘Either?’ Gabrielle twisted herself around to address Peter. ‘Who else did you ask?’

‘Penelope, Alejandra, Em!’ Peter rattled off the list. ‘Hell of a night, last night.’

‘Penelope?’ Gabrielle was curious to note. ‘Is that why you were crying?

‘Well, she was my literary mother.’ Peter forced a smile. ‘She came to say goodbye and I guess . . . I just realised how much I miss her. She did say she was happy about me finishing the story, but due to the precarious nature of the tale, I had to take it upon myself.’

‘That’s understandable. It certainly sounds like your sleep was very social.’ She looked back to the screen to read.

Peter was a little bleary this morning after waking several times in the night. When he woke at the crack of dawn, he’d crept downstairs and started writing before he was even fully in his body. ‘Penelope was seriously quite the looker in her younger days,’ he mumbled, having had a moment to review his dreams.

‘Bastard!’ said Gabrielle venomously.

‘Just an observation,’ Peter defended.

‘Not you, Pettigrew!’ Gabrielle turned from the text, to look back at Peter. ‘He must have conned Henry’s signature out of someone at the hotel.’

‘Very possibly.’ Peter nodded to agree. ‘But he must have had connections inside the business registry to have had those documents altered. It was a very well planned shakedown, that is certain.’

‘What a jerk!’ Gabrielle stood to pace out her frustration. ‘Not only did he steal Em’s money and career, he framed Henry for several murders he didn’t commit!’

‘Pettigrew stole Em’s career twice,’ Peter interrupted her rant for a news update. ‘In my dream Henry confessed that he only ever had one charge, with a split personality.’ Upon reflection, it was difficult to define their conversation as a dream. Even if it was only Peter’s own imagination and intuition reflecting back at him in his dreams, that didn’t mean he wasn’t on the right track.

‘Whoa!’ Gabrielle had suspected this, but still seemed surprised. ‘That is so impressive, on so many levels. Mainly on Henry’s behalf . . . to have been so open-minded, brave and forward thinking is incredible, even by today’s standards.’

‘He accredited much of the forward thinking to Sister Cole,’ Peter conveyed.

‘Another of Pettigrew’s casualties, despite that she did get away with murder herself. Then there was Margret’s death that Pettigrew was ultimately responsible for . . . and that’s just one tiny group of people we know of! How many other lives did this man intentionally destroy?’

‘But more importantly, did Em escape him alive?’ Peter already knew the answer, in his gut.

‘Why would we be at this juncture, if that were the case? Is it only justice for a stolen identity and artistic legacy, or justice for murder that Em is seeking?’

Peter didn’t have a definitive answer to that query just yet, but he had a clue to finding it. ‘How can one ghost attach itself to another?’

‘If they die together —’

‘What if they didn’t?’

‘If they were close during life.’

‘Nope.’

‘If they died in the same place.’ Gabrielle suddenly realised what he was driving at.

‘And we know where Pettigrew died.’

‘You think Em’s remains may still be in the building?’

‘It would explain why they’ve had trouble knocking the site down,’ Peter allowed. ‘Some force is protecting that site and has gone to great lengths to ensure that the building hasn’t been levelled.’

‘How synchronous that our appointment was delayed until today.’ There was a hint of trepidation underpinning her excitement. ‘Kind of scary when you think about it, or rather fortunate. A few days ago, we didn’t have a clue what we were dealing with.’

Upon reflection Peter recalled that he had wanted to run off and investigate the property at 4 Kismet Way when he’d first learned about it, but he didn’t have any sort of psychic protection at that time and may have just ended up another artist fatality of the apartment.

‘You worried?’ Peter wasn’t expecting anything too dramatic to happen, but then he hadn’t expected smoke to drive an entity out of his painting yesterday either.

‘No. Just wary. If all this proves true, then it’s very likely that a lot of the darker events that took place in that studio, from Em’s time to this, were all orchestrated by Pettigrew.’

‘Like the ballet dancer’s death?’ Peter rolled with her train of thought.

‘Isabelle, yes. And if Monique’s seduction in the book was a true account, perhaps that was Pettigrew too? Em was not interested in such base desires. The creative inspiration, I believe that was Em, making an attempt to inspire someone to uncover her tale,’ Gabrielle warranted. ‘Or just inspiring the artists out of sheer boredom!’

‘Pettigrew might have done away with Isabelle purely to get the other artists to turn against their muse?’ Peter concluded, and then decided he didn’t like the implications of that scenario.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Gabrielle rolled her eyes. ‘My protection is the only reason we’ve got this far.’

‘I believe it is,’ Peter agreed. ‘That’s a very powerful little statue you gave me — it did wonders for my focus last night.’

Gabrielle had a chuckle at this. ‘Any amulet is only as powerful as the will of the person who wears it.’

‘What?’ Peter hadn’t been clear on that footnote.

‘Think of the amulet like a magnifying glass for your will,’ Gabrielle said. ‘At least that’s my view on the matter, as I believe that ultimately we are all the authors of our own lives. So what the statue did was aid you to hone your focus, but you are the one with the power to either invoke or dismiss the powers you are calling to your assistance, and those powers will only aid those they deem to have a worthy cause. If Pettigrew was innocent and harmless, my blessing on this house would not have agitated him.’

‘In light of that, you’re definitely coming with me, in case I screw up.’ Peter knew he couldn’t stop her anyway.

‘You bet your arse I am.’ As she moved towards the door, she inhaled. ‘I smell coffee.’

‘Mrs E has no doubt arrived. Time for you to sample the marvellous house breakfast.’ Peter took up his phone. ‘I’d better message Spooky a morning report to let him know we are still alive and kicking.’

‘Are you going to tell him about yesterday?’ Gabrielle was obviously wondering how much he’d told the horror writer.

‘Am I going to boast about my kick-arse girlfriend? I most certainly am,’ Peter assured her, and he read out loud the report so far. ‘My lady fair evicted my ghostly nemesis from the house yesterday and the story is flowing again. Off to do some more fieldwork and ghost-busting today.’

‘Very good.’ Gabrielle left to seek coffee.

‘It wasn’t the butler who did it, it was the critic! I have proof and more to come, fingers crossed.’ Peter added to his message and hit send.

On the way to the warehouse site to meet with the realtor of the property, Peter checked his messages on his phone and had to chuckle. ‘Spooky says . . . I love a heroine with spunk!’ he read to Gabrielle as she was driving them to their appointment in her new car.

Gabrielle winked, lapping up the flattery.

‘The hero, however, is a bloody worry, running off ghost-busting without telling anyone where!’ Peter was amused. ‘4 Kismet Way, of course.’ he typed back. ‘No need to worry, my better half is with me.’

‘We’re first here.’ Gabrielle pulled into the abandoned building site that was in vast contrast to the otherwise active and modern industrial area surrounding it.

‘What a huge waste of prime real estate,’ Peter observed as he climbed out of the car. On the street out front he noted people walking by, looking at them and whispering. ‘Something tells me this site has become even more notorious since Penelope’s time.’

‘It certainly looks that way.’ Gabrielle closed up the car and locked it.

Peter turned to look over the building — two levels of car park with a warehouse above. ‘This is completely surreal . . . it’s just how I imagined it.’ His emotion welled unexpectedly — standing in the heart of both Penelope’s story and Em’s was overwhelming.

‘It is.’ Gabrielle eyed the building, not so fondly.

Another car joined them on the lot and they both looked to it, in expectation of receiving the keys to get inside.

A short, middle-aged fellow climbed out of the car and introduced himself as Barry. Peter was quietly amused to note that Barry seemed a little on edge about the viewing.

‘I’m sorry to say I’ve rather overbooked myself this morning,’ he told them, ‘I don’t have too much time to show you around. Is there anything specific you’d like to see?’ He made a couple of hesitant steps towards the building.

‘The warehouse space upstairs,’ Peter advised, feeling a little cruel as he watched the realtor squirm.

‘I don’t know that that’s safe.’ Barry had the keys in his hand, but seemed in no hurry to use them. ‘The building has little to do with the property value; it’s the location you’re buying here.’

‘But no one has been able to knock this structure down in nearly half a century.’ Peter let him know he’d done his homework. ‘Can we take the lift to the top floor?’

‘Oh no,’ Barry was insistent about that. ‘It’s been known to get stuck.’

‘Then the stairs will suffice.’ Peter led off towards the steel gate structure put in place over the opening to the car park to secure the lower entrance. ‘I gather you have the key to the upstairs door?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Barry followed. ‘But as I said, I am very pushed for time.’

‘Then why not leave us the keys? We’ll show ourselves around, and you can meet us back here in, say, an hour?’ Peter suggested.

Barry was thrown into complete turmoil. ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He clearly wanted to take up the offer.

‘We can hardly do the place any harm.’ Peter added to the man’s seemingly unwarranted woes.

‘You can take my car keys as insurance,’ Gabrielle proffered.

‘No, really, my concern is for your welfare,’ Barry insisted.

‘We know the history of this site.’ Peter decided to put Barry out of his misery. ‘I know people have died here, and that this site has had some paranormal difficulties and that’s why it’s still here.’

Barry appeared stunned, then relieved, and finally perplexed. ‘I don’t like to be deceitful about such things, which I cannot blatantly deny.’ He looked across the street to a group of factory workers on a smoke break, all observing him with great interest. ‘Everyone around here knows this site has . . . well, not lived up to its full potential.’ He quickly avoided any talk that might jeopardise the sale.

‘The history is exactly the reason this building is of interest to me,’ Peter got to the point. ‘But I can fully appreciate why you might wish to be elsewhere while we take a look.’

‘Very well.’ The real estate agent seemed to feel suitably absolved of responsibility. ‘So your interest in the property is historical?’

‘Quite.’ Peter felt that explained things very well.

‘Are you interested in knowing the asking price?’ Barry handed Peter the keys.

‘Rather less than it’s worth, I should imagine.’ And it wasn’t just the ghosts that made Peter assume it had a low price tag, but the fact that Barry wanted to tell him the price before he’d taken a look at it. ‘Who wants to buy a property that’s cursed?’

‘I . . . I wouldn’t go that far,’ Barry back-pedalled a little.

Peter tossed the keys in the air and caught them, not discouraged. ‘We’ll do a pest inspection and meet back with you in an hour.’

‘You have my number if you need me.’ Barry was out of there.

‘Alone at last.’ Peter unlocked the padlock and opened the gate. He strolled inside ahead of Gabrielle. ‘Holy shit, it’s huge!’ He observed the empty lower floor, a dark cement jungle that was seemingly unscathed.

‘Oh my goodness.’ Gabrielle had spotted the antique cage lift. ‘It’s gorgeous.’ She neared to take a closer look, and brushed dust from the metalwork. ‘I can see why a bunch of artist types might like this place, it’s very bohemian.’

‘It’s very quiet.’ Peter spotted the door to the stairs and was spared finding which key unlocked it, as it was open. They scaled the stairs to the next floor. Peeking through the door they found another vast concrete forest of pillars, only this level was semi-open to the elements on two sides, with breaks in the concrete walls acting like windows. Not unexpectedly the door that led out to the third level was locked. The second key he tried opened the door.

‘So far, so good.’ He stepped into the foyer and looked about, and Gabrielle trailed him.

‘All your characters have stood here at one time or another,’ Gabrielle imagined, as she took in the space.

‘Any bad vibes?’ he queried approaching the front door — he certainly didn’t feel any.

Gabrielle pouted and shook her head. ‘I have to say I’m loving this place so far. Open it up — let’s take a look.’

Upon entering the studio both Peter and Gabrielle were completely gobsmacked by the sheer size of the space and the tall arched windows. The extent of the damage to the glass was far more obvious from up here, and there was a fair amount of water damage to the walls and floors nearby.

The sink cabinet of the small kitchenette was still standing, but the room was otherwise gutted. No spiral stairs, no upper level period! And there was certainly no storage cupboard. It was all just one huge open space.

‘This is what you call an anti-climax.’ Peter wandered further in — it was magnificent and yet so disappointing.

‘Well what did you expect?’ Gabrielle was amused. ‘That you’d walk in and find the ending to your story staring you in the face?’

‘No! Kind of.’ Now he was pouting. ‘I expected to find something worth exploring.’

‘Just because you can’t see anything, doesn’t mean there’s nothing here,’ she suggested. ‘Why don’t you try making contact with Em?’

‘What? Like, just lie down on the floor and try going to sleep?’ Peter doubted he could do that.

‘No. Just sit down and go into a trance like you do when you write.’

‘Okay.’ Peter threw his hands up, thinking, What the hell, and took a seat on the floor.

‘Just think about where you are up to in the story and see if anything happens.’

The image that formed in Peter’s mind was that of Em packing up belongings in this space. He was interested to note that Em was presenting as Emeline in this instance, but then Em was planning to go out and Emeline was the more outgoing personality.

Ready to leave, Emeline approached the window to check the coast was clear, only to see Pettigrew and his manservant disembarking from a cab. ‘Oh no.’

She dropped everything and ran for the elevator, grabbing one of the cases by the front door on her way through. She pressed the button to bring the carriage back up to the top floor, and locked the door at the top of the fire stairs while she waited. Once the elevator carriage arrived, Emeline shoved her suitcase in the doorway to prevent the door closing, effectively rendering the elevator useless.

‘Why is he not at the exhibition?’ She backed inside and locked the front door also. ‘How did he find this place?’

Emeline appeared bewildered at this point, she was under siege and locked doors would only keep Pettigrew at bay for so long.

‘The journal.’ She realised she had to hide it as she would never get it out without detection now.

Emeline dug the item and the correspondence with her brother back out of the luggage and headed into the storeroom to bury both volumes in among a multitude of other books. But what was she to do with the keys? A glance about brought her sights to rest on her old cello case, and she regarded it fondly for a second — like an old friend she’d not seen in a long time. ‘No, too obvious.’

Upon exiting the storeroom, she locked the door and with the aid of a ladder, climbed up as high as she could and tossed both sets of keys up on top of one of the large metal ceiling cross beams.

The sound of the elevator doors trying to engage alerted her. Here he comes.

Peter was startled to hear the sound of the elevator activating so clearly, and for a second he wondered what had happened to Em’s blockade.

‘Peter?’ Gabrielle called for his attention and Peter realised the elevator sound was not internal but external — the elevator was moving!

Peter rose as Gabrielle backed up to stand alongside him. ‘Could be Barry?’ he posed hopefully.

The sound stopped and they heard the doors open, but on the floor below. The cage rattled about for a bit and was silent.

‘There’s no way he’d get in that elevator.’ Gabrielle was sounding more than a little wary as she gripped hold of the locket she wore on the chain about her neck, preparing for the worst.

They were startled as the cage rattled about again, the door closed and the elevator began to ascend again.

‘Someone is looking for us.’ Peter reached in his pocket and wrapped a hand about the pouch that contained his effigy.

The front door was still wide open, which allowed a clear view straight through to the lift beyond. They stood breathless as the closed carriage arrived at the top floor.

Please don’t be empty. Peter’s heart was pounding in his chest as the door opened, and Spooky slid the cage aside.

‘What’s up, kiddies?’ he asked as Peter breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘Did I give you a scare?’ He chuckled. ‘That’s my job done for the day then.’

‘You could’ve told me you planned on coming down.’ Peter held his chest to prevent his heart beating right out of it.

‘I sent you a message.’ The old Scot wandered in and took a look about. ‘Nice. I could live here.’

Peter checked his phone to find it dead. ‘Must have run out of charge. Gabrielle, meet Spooky Burns.’

Gabrielle moved forward to shake his hand.

‘A pleasure to meet you, but . . .’ He held his hands up to show her how greasy they were. ‘I’ve been doing some work on my bike this morning, so we’d best take a raincheck on the handshake.’

Gabrielle screwed up her nose and nodded to agree.

‘So where is this proof you were boasting about?’

‘I have some back at the house,’ Peter advised. ‘But I suspect there’s more definitive evidence here somewhere.’

‘There doesn’t look to be too many places to hide anything,’ Spooky observed. ‘Or were you expecting ghosts?’

‘Maybe?’ Peter waved off the expectation as probably a bit naive. ‘I thought we had one too, when the elevator started moving.’

‘Sorry to disappoint.’ Spooky served them a half grin. ‘But that’s the thing with ghosts, they never come out when you want them to.’

‘You weren’t given any insight by your daydream before?’ Gabrielle probed.

‘Nothing I hadn’t already imagined, really.’ Peter was finding the visit most disheartening. ‘What if I don’t find the ending?’

‘You’ll find an end, I wouldn’t worry,’ Spooky advised. ‘Every story has an end, although not always the one you desire.’

Gabrielle had wandered over to the window. ‘Barry’s back. What are we going to tell him?’

‘That I’ll think about it overnight,’ Peter replied. ‘And I’m sure I will. Did you want to come back to the house for dinner?’

‘After the last dinner, how could I say no?’ Spooky replied. ‘If that’s all right with Gabrielle, and I’m not intruding.’

‘Of course not,’ Gabrielle assured him. ‘Any friend of Peter’s is a friend of mine. You’d be most welcome.’

Although he wanted to be a good host, Peter was at a rather low ebb that evening. The day had really not been as beneficial to his quest as he’d hoped it would be. All he really wanted to do was go to bed and see if he could dream up any other clues that might help him solve Em’s mystery and finish this novella. Gabrielle had retired early to leave the men to talk shop. But Spooky, having had a few too many whiskies, fell asleep on the lounge while Peter was tending the fire.

He looked so comfortable Peter didn’t have the heart to wake him and send him home in a cab — better that he sleep it off and ride home in the morning. Peter removed the empty glass from his hand.

‘I don’t feel so good,’ he uttered.

‘It’s all good, my friend, I’ll see you in the morning.’ He covered Spooky with a blanket, happy that he’d make it to his bed all the faster.

It didn’t take long for Peter to get into the lucid sleep zone once he was comfortable on the bed — the image of Emeline, alone in the warehouse studio, had been haunting him all evening. She may have been wearing trousers, but her make-up and hairstyle was late 1940s lady chic, and her breasts were not compressed as they were when she was Emanuel.

Peter. She acknowledged his presence.

Em, he replied. No car ride tonight?

Pettigrew has fled, she said.

He just let you go? Why?

That is what Alejandra has gone to find out, she explained. He may just be toying with us and could rear his ugly head at any moment.

There was a hard bang on the door at the top of the spiral stairway, which startled them both.

Ignore it, Em suggested. There is no end of distractions in the spirit world.

Tell me what became of you, Em. Peter didn’t want to waste any more time either.

You know my secret, and you still wish to champion my cause? She seemed pleasantly surprised.

Of course.

She motioned him closer, so she could look into his eyes. Pettigrew left me only two options that day — kill or be killed.

And which option did you choose?

She placed her hands upon his chest and Peter felt his airflow restricting. How could that be happening when he had psychic protection?

I had never harmed another living thing in my whole life —

The sensation of no air grew so intense that Peter was forced awake, and his panic snowballed when he found someone leaning over him in the darkness pressing their thumbs into his throat. What the fuck . . . ?

Peter felt the amulet in his hand and his first reaction was to belt his assailant in the head with it. Upon release, Peter, gasping for air, dived for the light switch and flicked it on, temporarily blinding them both.

As his eyes adjusted, Peter was horrified to find Spooky Burns raising himself from the ground with a bloodied gash in the side of his head where Peter had struck him. ‘Spooky, what are you doing?’ Peter rolled to the far side of the bed to put some distance between them.

‘She’s leading you all down the garden path!’ he growled at Peter.

‘Are you sleepwalking?’ Peter had no clue what was going on.

‘I’m here to defend my honour! Preserve my legacy!’

Peter suddenly noted something rather odd about this picture. ‘Why are you speaking with an English accent?’

A vase appeared and smashed over Spooky’s head, and he fell to the floor to reveal Gabrielle behind him, shaking like a leaf.

‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ Clearly, she felt awful to have done this to their guest. ‘He wasn’t wearing any protection at the warehouse today,’ she attempted to explain. ‘I think that was Pettigrew you were speaking to.’

‘Shit!’ Peter freaked. ‘My villain has possessed my favourite horror writer . . . how the fuck do I deal with that plot twist?’

‘Don’t freak out.’ Gabrielle had stayed her nerves. ‘We just need to strap his body down, and I’ll drive the spirit out of him the same way we did the painting.’

‘How the hell did Pettigrew get back in?’ Peter had to protest this reality. ‘Tell me I’m still dreaming.’

‘You’re not.’ Gabrielle moved to pick up the unconscious man’s feet. ‘We invited him back in.’ She looked to Peter.

‘Well, I didn’t know Pettigrew was in him?’ He found himself on the defensive, but then, insight.

‘That’s where Pettigrew went. He’s not restraining Em, because he’s here.’ Now he was smiling. It might also explain why Spooky was feeling a little off-colour this evening, the banishing spell must have been disturbing the spirit within him and affecting Spooky’s equilibrium. ‘You’re right, let’s tie him up, but let’s not exorcise his demon straight away.’

‘What?’ Gabrielle was surprised at him. ‘A second ago you were horrified your friend has become embroiled in this —’

‘Spooky would understand completely.’ Peter lifted the man in question onto the bed with Gabrielle’s aid. ‘This could be my one opportunity to speak with Em without interruption, I have to take it.’

Gabrielle’s mouth was gaping open in shock, but then she closed it and merely frowned in quiet objection.

‘He’s not in any discomfort is he?’ Peter felt he looked very comfortable on the bed.

‘Besides the fact he’s been hit on the head twice, and probably has a massive hangover, you mean?’

‘If we call a doctor and Pettigrew is still in there, he’ll be carted off to the looney bin most likely, if not prison. Let’s not forget he just tried to murder me.’ Peter opened the wardrobe searching for something to use as binders, and grabbed a few ties. ‘Finally, a good use for these,’ he ribbed Gabrielle, who’d insisted he should buy them.

‘One of these days you’ll take me out to dinner.’ She grabbed one from him and began tying a foot to a bedpost.

‘Name one restaurant whose food is better than Mrs E’s?’ He grinned, as he tied the other foot.

‘Well,’ she grabbed up another tie, to secure one of their captive’s hands, ‘when you have date nights like this, how could a girl possibly complain?’

‘I know.’ Peter felt a twinge of guilt for having never taken her anywhere special — that wasn’t arranged or that didn’t end in a life-threatening situation. ‘I suck at romance.’

‘No you don’t,’ she insisted. ‘I love how completely super weird we are together.’

‘Me too.’ Peter returned her sincere smile, and as they finished securing their possessed guest, they kissed over his unconscious body.

Em was waiting for him in the packed-up studio warehouse, just as before, but now she was seated on a lounge appearing far more relaxed and she motioned for Peter to come sit beside her.

We are at liberty to talk now. Peter was seated.

Yes . . . now I finally know what a holiday feels like. Her smile was one of gratitude.

Perhaps you should take the chance to flee this place, Em? Peter was quite sincerely concerned more for her eternal welfare than obtaining the climax of his book; if push came to shove he could probably piece something together.

You’ve worked so hard to bring my story out that I could hardly leave here before enlightening you as to what transpired that day. She took a deep breath to steady her nerves. After his first visit to the warehouse, when Pettigrew discovered he couldn’t get in to me, he left his henchman to guard the exit to the locked fire door on the ground floor to ensure I didn’t get out.

Did you speak with him?

No. He did all the talking. He yelled his vile intent from behind the locked fire door in the foyer. I was told of his plan to frame Henry and seize all his assets, including me. He kept referring to me as his little she-man, it was disgusting. His trouble was that he was assuming I was hiding because I was afraid of him.

Weren’t you?

No. I was so angry about what he’d done, I was afraid that I would be the one going to jail for murder. She stared deep into Peter’s eyes. And I’m sure I don’t need to explain why I would choose death over that fate. I would rather be killed than live in prison, or be left to the will of Pettigrew’s sick little fantasies. So, when he returned, I left all the entryways open. Needless to say old Proudfoot could not have been more delighted.

‘My dear Lady Fairchild, I knew it was you.’ Pettigrew sent his man back downstairs and entered the open warehouse alone. ‘You’ve finally come to see reason?’

‘No,’ Em replied. ‘I can see no reasoning behind your actions whatsoever.’

‘I told you, I always get what I want.’ Pettigrew eyed the many paintings that remained in the gallery studio, including The Lovers. ‘And this is quite a prize.’

‘Take it! I never cared for the fame or the money.’ Emeline threw her hands up.

‘Well that’s very gracious of you, I shall certainly take both the fame and the money off your hands — quite legally, I’m afraid. Being that everyone now thinks I am Em Jewel. My prior fascination with you, and your fascination with yourself —’ he motioned to the many pictures Em featured in ‘— made that all too easy to believe.’

‘Admiring the finished work holds little fascination compared with the creation of it, the one joy you, my Lord, will never know.’

Pettigrew forced a smile. ‘Oh, I have imagination,’ he assured her as he moved closer, but Em stood her ground and showed no fear. ‘And it’s been working overtime imagining how we shall amuse ourselves.’

Em merely raised her brows. ‘You really are completely self-absorbed, aren’t you?’

‘No. Like you, I am completely obsessed with you.’ He circled around behind Em, and then reaching around into her crotch he groped her privates. ‘My little man-whore —’ He ground his erection against her behind.

‘Is this the part where I am supposed to cower in fear of your great manhood?’ Em queried, unaffected by his efforts to demoralise her. ‘Or is this strange seduction technique, supposed to excite me?’

Pettigrew swung Em around, and he was fuming that she was not intimidated. ‘I’m betting you’re still a virgin, little pussy boy, and I’m going to show you what you’ve been missing.’

Although he gripped both her arms tightly, Em shoved the man backwards with super-womanly force. ‘Just one problem with your plan, old man.’ Em grinned with satisfaction at the shocked look on her aggressor’s face. ‘You’ve only met Emeline, but there is a man in this body as well, one younger, stronger and fitter than you.’ Em raised both hands and beckoned with all eight fingers for him to attack again. ‘And you sent all your muscle downstairs.’ She pointed out that might have been a mistake.

‘I have other ways to make you cooperate.’ The Lord pulled a gun from his coat pocket and aimed it at her. ‘Take off your clothes, now.’

‘And if I don’t?’ she challenged, preferring that he pull the trigger.

‘Then you’ll become part of my refurbishment of this property,’ he threatened. ‘No one will notice an extra pillar here or there.’

‘And you get the fame you always wanted,’ she guessed the happy ending to his tale.

‘Well, you don’t exist,’ Pettigrew outlined how easy they’d made it for him. ‘No one has ever seen you, nor will they have cause to look for you. You can just vanish as you always wanted to.’

‘And be your sex slave.’ She found it difficult to comprehend his depravity.

‘Just me, and a few close friends.’ His smug air was completely repulsive.

This was a monster who would never stop eating his way through good souls so long as he lived. But she was not going to award him the opportunity to break her spirit.

‘I will never be yours,’ she told him with all confidence. ‘So give it your best shot.’

‘Hot or cold makes no difference to me.’ Pettigrew pulled the trigger.

THE END

‘Ah!’ Peter awoke and sat straight upright, startled by the feeling of having been fired upon.

When his heart stopped racing, he noted it was dawn outside. ‘I need to get to the computer.’ He scrambled out of bed to dress and as he turned to head out the door he confronted Gabrielle, who looked like she hadn’t had any sleep. ‘At last, you’re awake. How did you go?’

‘Amazing!’ He was excited. ‘I think I know where we might find Em’s body. I need to write, and make phone calls.’ Peter didn’t know where to start, but kissed Gabrielle and went to run downstairs.

‘But what about Spooky? Are you just going to leave him possessed and possibly concussed?’

‘Oh, crap, I’d forgotten about that.’ Peter was torn. ‘I guess we should exorcise him first.’

‘What do you mean, “I guess”?’

‘Do you need some sleep first?’ Peter proffered, as she looked completely wasted and was somewhat grumpier than usual.

‘No!’ she insisted, perhaps thinking he was looking to buy some writing time — which was exactly what he was doing. ‘I need to know that we are not going to be arrested for assaulting this man!’

‘Copy that.’ Peter’s reasoning capabilities finally kicked in. ‘Let’s just leave the window open this time.’

‘We can. Pettigrew has already been banished from here and won’t be able to retreat into the house.’

‘Can we banish him from this world altogether?’ Peter thought that would be more convenient.

‘I’d need Grandma’s help to do that,’ Gabrielle said. ‘I can’t make a spirit leave, who is not at peace.’

‘So call Alejandra in,’ Peter suggested. ‘If Pettigrew is here, he can’t be detaining her.’

‘I haven’t heard from her.’ Gabrielle appeared a little concerned. ‘She’s not with Em?’

‘Em said Alejandra was chasing up Pettigrew. But if she didn’t find him, or thought Em was still in danger, she could have returned to her vigil.’

Gabrielle went quiet for a moment, her attention turning inward. ‘Nope, nothing.’

‘Not to worry. Can we trap Pettigrew in something, perhaps, until we locate Alejandra?’

‘I am not a Bruja, my abuelita only taught me a few simple protection spells!’ Clearly she thought he was expecting too much.

‘Gabrielle,’ Peter took hold of her shoulders. ‘That’s totally cool, but I really think you should sleep before you attempt anything.’

‘Peter! We’ve waited long enough!’ She glanced into the bedroom, to see their victim still hadn’t budged. ‘I wish he’d just stir, at least. I checked his bumps and they don’t look too bad, but —’

‘Well, there you go. Spooky tends to be a night owl and he sleeps late anyway.’ Peter attempted to reassure himself and Gabrielle. ‘If you sleep while he sleeps it will buy me some time to do some digging around. Did you get the files on the property when you visited the council the other day?’

‘Yes, I copied all the information from the time Em Jewel Holdings did their initial conversion, until after the period when Penelope frequented the property.’

‘Please tell me that information was not on your new computer.’

‘It was,’ she said mournfully. ‘But there are printouts in that file I gave you with the articles about Henry in it.’

He kissed her. ‘You are the best research assistant ever!’

She finally cracked a smile. ‘What are you up to?’

‘I’ll fill you in on the details when you wake.’ Peter resumed his course for the stairs.

It was a little disappointing to find that there was no structural reinforcement done on the property during the period in question, at least, none that had included submitting plans to council. If there had been new work, Peter could have focused his investigation on those areas. ‘Just because it isn’t in print doesn’t mean it isn’t there.’ Peter considered going back down to the site and taking these blueprints with him. Still, he wasn’t a builder and was no expert on reading blueprints. But he did know a builder who had a vested interest in his cause.

‘Phone number?’ He headed to the telephone desk where he’d left it, and referencing the number he typed it into his mobile. He thought to check the time before he hit the call button. It was just on seven o’clock. ‘Not too early for a tradesman.’

When Mr and Mrs Eddington arrived for work, Peter was seated on the stairs awaiting them with his car keys and blueprints in-hand.

‘Good morning, Peter,’ they both greeted him. ‘You are going out?’ Mr Eddington closed the door behind them.

‘I am, but I just wanted to advise you that Gabrielle is sleeping in the spare room, she didn’t get much sleep last night, so try not to disturb her.’ Peter noted them suppressing grins, and he felt they had entirely the wrong impression. ‘We had a little incident.’ He didn’t know quite how to put this. ‘My dear friend Mr Burns is tied to the bed in my room.’

‘Pardon?’ Naturally the old couple were shocked.

‘Mr Burns had a bit of a bad trip, mixed with too much whisky, I’m afraid,’ he explained.

‘Drugs!’ Mrs Eddington looked to her husband. ‘We haven’t seen any acid casualties in this house since the seventies.’

Mr Eddington nodded to agree, and Peter was relieved they were taking it all in their stride. ‘I’m afraid he might hurt himself if we let him loose.’

‘Very good, sir,’ Mr Eddington acknowledged. ‘You’re the nurse.’

‘Call me if he wakes,’ Peter requested. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

The man who owned the construction company contracted to site manage the project at 4 Kismet Way was waiting for Peter on-site when he arrived.

‘You must be Steve.’ Peter climbed out of his car to greet the builder, who was quietly admiring Peter’s old Aston.

‘Yeah, Pete is it?’ He shook Peter’s hand. ‘Nice ride.’

‘My prize possession.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t be bringing anything I prized onto this lot,’ Steve commented.

‘You’ve had problems getting this structure down?’

Steve shied away from saying too much. ‘My client wants to sell this property, and you’re an interested buyer, far be it from me to put you off. You had a proposition for me, you said?’

‘Yes, I was wondering if you’d lend me your expert eye on something?’ Peter rolled out the blueprints on the car.

‘Sure, what am I looking for?’ The builder came up beside him to view the plans.

‘Any part of this structure,’ Peter pointed back to the abandoned building, ‘that is not recorded on these plans.’ Peter knew he was asking a lot.

‘You mean like the round columns at the far end of level one,’ assumed Steve, not needing to reference the blueprints.

‘Are there?’ Peter hadn’t noticed.

Steve nodded. ‘I couldn’t work out what they’d been for, as they aren’t structural. I thought maybe they were old water storage pillars, from before the time the mains feed was installed. I never found out as we never got to knock anything down.’

‘Show me?’ Peter headed straight for the gate, but Steve was more wary. ‘It’s okay, your resident spook is not here at present.’

‘You know, then?’

‘That this place is haunted? Yes, I know. But we may be able to remedy that.’

‘You think you can get rid of the . . . disturbances?’ Steve was clearly finding it difficult to decide how best he could serve his client and the abandoned project.

‘With your help,’ Peter warranted, motioning him to the unopened padlock on the gate.

‘Sure thing. Anything’s worth a go.’ The builder appeared a little more keen to risk entry; both he and his client must have stood to lose a lot on this deal. ‘But how do you know the Sparky isn’t here?’

‘The Sparky?’ Peter was amused.

‘That’s what we call it. Fire anything up and sparks start flying.’ Steve decided to come clean about what he knew. ‘Brand spanking new machinery just goes defunct here, it’s like a dead zone for anything electrical.’

Peter nodded in empathy, having seen the entity rip through Gabrielle’s computer, and his phone go dead during his visit to this site the day before. So as Steve opened the barricade, Peter pulled out his mobile to check it was still operating. ‘All good so far.’ He flashed the screen at Steve.

‘That’s a first.’ Steve was impressed, and the fact appeared to up his confidence, as he led Peter down to show him the columns in question. They were large.

‘They’re plenty big enough.’ Peter cast his eye over them both.

‘For what?’ Steve queried, having been unable to figure out their purpose.

‘To conceal a body in.’

‘A body?’ Steve was clearly shocked.

‘Do you know anyone who can X-ray concrete?’ Peter didn’t even know if that was possible.

‘These are hollow, hence my water storage theory,’ Steve advised. ‘And as they’re not structural, we could just jack-hammer into them.’

‘Do you have a jack hammer on-site?’

‘As it happens, I do.’ Steve raised his brow warily. ‘But getting it to fire up could be another matter.’

‘Do you have power to the site?’ Peter expected not.

‘I don’t need it; the hammer is driven with an air-compressor and a diesel engine. But,’ Steve cocked his head, ‘that didn’t prevent it remaining defunct that last time we meant to use it.’

‘Trust me,’ Peter encouraged. ‘Today it will work.’

Two hours and a bit of jack-hammering felled enough cement to reveal the interior and, when they shone a torch within, human remains were discovered.

‘We’re going to have to report this.’ Steve stood staring at the bones in horror.

‘This is a more than half-century-old cold case.’ Peter let him know there was no extreme urgency.

‘These probably were water storage that have just been cemented up. Do you want me to crack open the other column?’ Steve shone his torch light towards it.

‘I think you’ll find there’s only one body to be found here.’ Peter couldn’t take his eyes off the bones, a little sickened to think this was what had become of his talented young muse.

‘You know who this is?’ Steve must have picked up on Peter’s sentiment.

‘I have a fair idea, yes.’ Peter’s phone began buzzing in his pocket.

‘I’ll pack up the equipment then,’ Steve said, as Peter moved away to take the call. ‘Hello?’

‘Spooky’s awake.’ Gabrielle got straight to the point.

‘And is he himself this morning?’ Peter assumed Pettigrew had not escaped.

‘Nope. Pettigrew is still in there and he’s really pissed off. He insists he didn’t kill Em, or Isabella, or anyone! He claims Em is a demon and that she killed him and his manservant. He says you should be looking for two bodies.’

‘He’s lying.’ Peter had solved the mystery and had the ending he always suspected.

I thought so too. But I did a quick search on his manservant, Hugo Perkins, and he also went missing without a trace.’

‘Pettigrew probably killed the man himself to cover up his crimes,’ Peter posed, watching Steve pack up the gear.

‘Not beyond possibility,’ she granted. ‘But, I did some more digging on Pettigrew’s death, and found an obscure tabloid news story that stated that a source who had attended the death scene at the studio, claimed to have been shocked to learn that Lord Pettigrew, aka Em Jewel, had lived his entire life repressing the fact he was a full-blown hermaphrodite.’

‘What?’ Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

‘The family of Lord Pettigrew vehemently denied the claim as a vicious rumour.’

‘You think that’s why he was so attracted to Em, because he was like her?’ This information was making Peter a little edgy; he felt so sure he’d cracked the case.

No. Pettigrew had already managed to seize all Em Jewel’s assets in his name, so even if Em killed him, how would Em have managed to set herself to rights legally without exposing herself? Pettigrew became an artistic recluse for those last years of his life, and Em was a master in transformation —’

‘But surely someone from his family had to identify Pettigrew’s body?’ Peter thought the notion a little far-fetched.

‘Well apparently the body was quite decomposed by the time they found it. And Pettigrew left a large inheritance. He had many estates, you see. It seemed rather odd that he neglected all of them after acquiring the warehouse

‘That is odd . . .’ Peter didn’t want to believe that the hero of his tale had been telling him lies, but if he wanted to get to the truth today he had to stop Steve packing up.

Over the next few hours, Peter was pushed to the limits of his patience. Police had arrived on the scene, and he was forced to confront the mammoth task of trying to explain how he knew the bodies were on the property; he cited his old mentor, the diaries Penelope had taken from the warehouse, and Gabrielle’s research. This was enough to satisfy the police, and they certainly didn’t suspect him of being involved in the crime as the case was so old. Although there was no documentation of when the columns had been installed in the building site, by citing the construction method used, Steve could confirm they dated to mid-last century.

The police had also insisted they break open the other tank, but when Steve set up to get to work, all the equipment went dead.

‘I’m not out of juice.’ Steve looked to Peter. ‘I can’t imagine what the problem could be?’ The builder was obviously wary of saying too much with the police around.

Inside Peter was fuming. ‘Could I have the keys to upstairs?’ he requested.

‘Sure.’ Steve handed them over.

‘Can we get this fixed?’ The police officers didn’t like the holdup either. Steve referred the question to Peter.

‘Just —’ Peter reined in his anger. ‘Give me time to make a couple of calls.’

By the time Peter crossed the foyer on the third level to unlock the warehouse studio door, he’d psyched himself into battle mode.

‘Enough games!’ he demanded, slamming the door closed behind him. ‘If you want your legacy restored, if you want your story known, then tell me the fucking truth!’ He expended his anger into the empty warehouse, and then stormed into the middle of the huge expanse to pace out some of his angst.

He’d been perfectly happy a couple of hours ago when the end of his tale had been so clear and perfect. If Em had been murdered by Pettigrew and he had stolen her fame and artistic legacy, that was one thing. But if she had murdered Pettigrew, his manservant and Isabelle, Peter was not going to look so favourably on his muse.

‘Talk to me!’ Peter shouted, even though he knew Em would probably not respond to his anger very well. ‘I know you can speak with me directly, just as you did with Billy Boyle! Or are you too ashamed to admit the truth!’

‘I’m not ashamed of anything I did.’

Light began pouring through the tall windows and Peter saw Em standing within the rays.

‘But I am afraid of having my story told and being judged harshly for circumstances that were beyond my control. For those of my gender this is always the case, my achievements shall be brushed under the carpet as the works of an insane monster! Leave the story as it stands,’ she made an impassioned appeal. ‘Let it be an insight and an inspiration to champion the cause of all those human beings who do not conveniently fit into the slot of male or female, instead of used as fuel in the fire of old witch hunts against us.’

Her appeal got to Peter, as this was exactly what he wanted for her story too. At the same time, she had more or less confessed to murder. ‘Your story is inspiring, Em. And if you somehow managed to defend yourself against Pettigrew and his bullying, and turn his swindling around to assume his identity — well, that’s even more incredible! But spare a thought for all those people who have been caught in the firing line of your deceptions and his! Tell the truth, and let people decide for themselves if Pettigrew and his crony got their just deserts. I personally think they did, for you stopped him ruining heaven knows how many more lives! But Isabelle’s death, I don’t understand.’

There was a bang from the door upstairs, as there had been in Peter’s dream, and looking aside he saw only the gutted room.

‘That was an accident,’ Em insisted.

‘You had nothing to do with it?’ Peter clarified.

‘I might have inspired her a little too much that day,’ she confessed, ‘but no one knew she had a heart condition.’

‘And Penelope? She once spoke of a stressful situation being responsible for her death . . . did you have anything to do with that?’

‘It was Pettigrew who didn’t want her to pursue this story, not I.’

‘So what are you ashamed of?’ Peter appealed.

‘I am ashamed because I gave in to the monster that Pettigrew always assumed I was, when I should have just stood my ground and let him shoot me. By the end, I wished I had. That would have been an end fit for a legend.’

Peter forced a grin; the truth of the matter was clear. ‘But you killed the bad guy.’ For most heroes that would have been the whole objective of their quest.

‘I am a creative . . . I could never be proud of such an offence against creation.’

‘How did you do it? How did you dodge that bullet?’

She smiled sweetly. ‘Either he was an awful shot, or he was firing a warning shot to scare me, I didn’t hesitate long enough to ask.’

There was another bang from upstairs that Peter ignored as Em was opening up. ‘You overpowered him then.’

‘My sister-side had a talent with sharp stabbing weapons; she knew exactly where a blade should strike to do the most damage. Then I waited for his man to come looking for him, and I slit his throat too.’ Em might have been putting on a show, but she appeared quite nauseated by the memory. ‘I never painted again. It wasn’t the killing so much as the clean-up afterwards, and the lengths I had to go to to hide the bodies. I repulsed myself. I assumed Pettigrew’s identity hoping to get the charges against Chester dropped, but She shook her head. ‘He took his own life before I could put together a case that might clear his name.’

‘But how was it that someone didn’t expose you as not being Pettigrew?’ Peter was beginning to find this ending to his tale even more fascinating than the last.

‘Pettigrew didn’t have any friends in this town, no family here. Convincing people that you are who you say you are, is just a matter of confidence, at least it was at that time. But after Chester’s suicide I lost what was left of my will to live. I was tired of hiding, yet I had no desire to see another living soul. I never touched a cent of Pettigrew’s money, I sold the completed paintings I had left and survived for a while.’

‘But not The Lovers,’ Peter knew that had not been taken from the Kismet Way apartment until after Penelope’s time here.

‘No.’ Em was mournful. ‘Poor Margret, I should have been more compassionate, and perhaps my life would have turned out very differently. But as it played out, I left myself exposed. The solitude I’d once prized above all else turned to loneliness; a state of being with which I was previously unfamiliar. I was haunted by what I’d done, those I’d lost. I felt Pettigrew watching me, laughing at the destruction he’d caused and mocking my disillusionment. Without passion, friend or cause, I just sat down one day and never got up.’

‘Why didn’t you just leave this place?’ Peter wondered, ‘go and find that remote country cottage you always dreamed of?’

‘I felt safer guarding the scene of my crime.’

‘You won’t have to do that any more.’ Peter hoped that came as some consolation.

‘I guess not.’ She forced a smile, uncomfortable with having to compromise on her grand scheme.

‘My respect for you has not been tarnished, Em. I shall write a truthful account of all of this, and despite what anyone thinks, your conscience is clear. Let others view your life and art as they will.’

Em was far from delighted, but she nodded to allow his will to be done. ‘I have great respect for you also; you are certainly the bravest artist I’ve ever mused.’

Peter was rather chuffed by her flattery. ‘Well, thanks to you and Penelope, I found my passion.’

‘What will you do without me?’ Em finally found her smile.

The bang was heard once more, and as Em seemed to have purged herself sufficiently, Peter had to ask. ‘Is that Alejandra you have trapped?’

‘I was only going to hold her until you published the book,’ Em confessed sweetly.

‘Well, if everything you have told me is the truth, you can set her free now,’ he instructed more than requested. ‘We need her to help send Pettigrew on his way to wherever he’s bound.’

‘Peter, the police are getting restless.’

Peter was startled by Steve’s entrance, and the abrupt end to his visitation.

‘What should I tell them?’ The builder looked around the warehouse no doubt wondering why Peter was up here, and who he was talking to. ‘Did you have any luck getting a call out?’

Peter’s phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled out his phone to find a message from Gabrielle asking when he’d be back.

‘Hey, the power on your generator is back up,’ one of the police team stuck his head through the doorway to advise. ‘We’re back in business.’

‘All good then.’ Peter was relieved that Em seemed to be cooperating, but he suspected Pettigrew was still being a handful at home. ‘I need to leave, can you finish up here?’

‘I guess.’ Steve didn’t look too thrilled about that. ‘But the police might have more questions for you.’

‘I’ll arrange to go down to the station in the morning and fill them in on what I know. Thanks for all your help today; just bill me.’ Peter waved and headed for the door.

‘But what about Steve hesitated.

‘Sparky?’ Peter assumed.

‘Well yeah, what’s the outlook on that score?’

‘It’s looking good,’ Peter warranted. ‘I think you’ll find that after you remove the bodies, things here will settle.’

‘The bodies?’ Steve queried. ‘I thought you said there was only one?’

‘My research assistant,’ Peter held up his phone, ‘informs me there may be another.’

‘So the bodies just wanted to be found, you think?’ Steve put forward his theory.

‘Makes for a fitting end to an urban haunting, I reckon.’ Peter looked around the studio space. ‘Seems a shame to tear it down.’

‘Are you shitting me?’ Steve placed his hands on his hips to stress his not-so-romantic view on that count. ‘After the grief this building has caused me, I’ll be manning the wrecking ball myself!’

At the house, Gabrielle was awaiting Peter at the front door. ‘How many bodies did you find?’

‘Well, they hadn’t started on the second scan when I left as we had power problems, but —’

‘I believe Em killed them both,’ they both said at once.

‘Ah, Em released Alejandra, I take it?’ Peter felt gratified by Em’s cooperation — there had been a moment there today that he’d felt sure he was going to burn his manuscript just to spite her.

‘Oh, yes, and now Grandma is pissed at both your muses,’ Gabrielle said.

‘How is Spooky doing?’ Peter headed upstairs, and Gabrielle accompanied him.

‘It’s hard to tell when Pettigrew is doing all the talking.’

‘Can Alejandra help us send him packing for good?’ Peter didn’t want this ghost back at the warehouse causing mayhem either, but he had to get the vindictive spirit out of his friend.

‘She says she will assist, but we can still only persuade him to leave this world, we cannot make him leave.’

‘Then let’s find out what he wants.’

Gabrielle waylaid Peter from entering the room. ‘Angry spirits feed on anger and fear,’ she warned. ‘Courage and goodwill are the best weapons . . . don’t let him bait you.’

Peter took a moment to compose himself. Despite the roller-coaster ride the last few days had been, he had his ending, which was elating to consider, and that high wasn’t going to be wiped away easily.

Gabrielle got out her phone. ‘I’m going to film this to show Mr Burns.’

‘Good call.’ Peter felt that would help a lot when it came to explaining this to his new associate.

In his room the renowned horror writer was seething on his bed. ‘About bloody time!’ It was very disconcerting hearing a completely different voice coming out of the Scotsman’s mouth.

‘Why are you still here?’ Peter appealed.

‘I demand justice!’ he roared. ‘That little cunt of a she-man murdered me!’

‘I know and I fully intend to bring that to light,’ Peter advised as calmly as he was able. ‘So, you will have your justice.’

‘No!’ he objected. ‘I want that story buried! I want my legacy preserved! I deserve that, since that abomination stole my life!’

This was just as Em had claimed. It now seemed clear that Pettigrew was behind the stressful situation that had caused Penelope’s first stroke and prompted her to move out of home. ‘Is that what you told Penelope?’ Peter probed.

‘Don’t try to pin her death on me,’ Pettigrew snarled. ‘I wasn’t the one supposed to be taking care of her.’

‘Peter.’ Gabrielle warned him against losing his temper, before he lashed out and lost this battle of wills.

‘I do not frighten as easily as old ladies.’ Peter wanted to burst into a spiel about all the lives Pettigrew had destroyed, but refrained, heeding Gabrielle’s caution. ‘I’m not going to drop this story, any more than I shall give Em the hero’s ending she wanted. I am only interested in airing the truth. But, on the upside for you, we can at least lay to rest the rumour that you were a hermaphrodite.’

‘What!’ Spooky’s face went so red that Peter thought his head might pop.

‘Yes, I thought you might like that point clarified, and I’m more than happy to do you this service, provided that you leave this world, as you should have long ago.’

‘That’s blackmail,’ Pettigrew seethed.

‘Yes, it is,’ Peter admitted happily. ‘Or, I could bury this story as you suggest and dig up the coroner’s report on Em Jewel. I could write an entirely new work of complete fiction based on the secret double-sex life of Lord Reginald Pettigrew?’

If looks could kill, Peter would have been obliterated. ‘I could just wait around and kill you in your sleep.’ The man suddenly gasped and looked to the other side of the room.

‘Grandma’s here.’ Gabrielle whispered in Peter’s ear. ‘She’s telling him not to be threatening her kin, or she will call up the holy death to drag him to hell where he belongs.’

Alejandra was bluffing, having already informed them the spirit could not be banished anywhere against his will, but Pettigrew didn’t know that.

Their captive was leaning away from the invisible distraction, appearing more fearful than mad now. ‘Keep that crazy witch and her serpent away from me!’

‘Well, you have pissed her off, and unfortunately for you there is nowhere on this earth where Alejandra won’t find you,’ Peter outlined the spirit’s diminishing options. ‘So if you don’t wish to be dragged to hell by the lady of holy death, I suggest you return to your maker of your own accord.’

‘What about Em?’ Pettigrew wanted revenge on her.

‘Em is gone,’ Peter advised. ‘So, if you have a mind to return to the warehouse, you’ll find no one there to torment. It’s time to leave the stage, Lord Pettigrew, and move on to your next performance.’

‘Don’t you think I want that?’ Pettigrew barked, frustrated. ‘I am bound to this world, I cannot move on.’

‘It is only your hateful memories and intentions that have kept you bound here,’ Gabrielle cut in to advise and handed Peter the phone to keep filming. ‘But there is nothing more to expose here, nothing left to prove. Just let go and be in the light.’

‘No,’ the spirit resisted and then Spooky’s eyes turned upwards and opened wide in wonder as he gasped. ‘So beautiful! And such music!’ He closed his eyes. ‘I quite . . . forgot . . .’

Peter couldn’t see whatever had the ghost so enchanted, but he’d gone deathly still! ‘The holy death?’ Peter guessed, and Gabrielle shrugged as she ventured to check on Spooky.

‘Maybe? I saw as much as you.’ She stopped still, focused and then nodded with a smile. ‘Alejandra says the clearing was successful. Lord Pettigrew shall not be bothering anyone again.’

Gabrielle took hold of Spooky’s arm to check his pulse, when he woke suddenly and startled Gabrielle.

‘Spooky?’ Peter queried, as the man discovered and inspected his bonds.

‘Oh no, what did I do this time?’ He winced. ‘My head is splitting and I’m fucking dying for a piss.’

‘Then let’s get you untied, and we’ll fill you in over some food, hey?’ Peter untied the bonds on one side and Gabrielle did likewise on the other side.

Released, relieved, treated and fed, Spooky sat in the kitchen with Peter and Gabrielle, watching the video they’d shot of him. Mr and Mrs Eddington had left for the day, glad that Peter’s guest was now feeling more himself.

‘This is fucking awesome!’ The horror writer was completely stoked to have been possessed and had it captured on film. ‘Listen to that accent, I sound like a bloody Pom!’ He shook his head. ‘I couldn’t even fake that!’

‘Yes, that was decidedly strange,’ Peter agreed.

‘You have to let me post this on social media, my readers are going to go nuts! No spoiler bits from your book, of course. Maybe just the part about the old witch and the serpent . . . where you threaten to send me to hell by the holy death, or some shit . . . absolutely priceless.’ He wiped the tears of amusement from his eyes.

‘I reckon I owe you that much.’ Peter couldn’t see any harm in it. ‘Do you remember any of it? Dinner last night?’

Spooky stuck out his bottom lip as he considered the query and then shook his head. ‘Last thing I remember I was working on my bike. I had to take it for a test run and I thought I’d come see what you were up to. You sure turned out to be a hell of a lot more left of centre than I imagined on first meeting, newbie. I can’t bloody wait to read your book now, and find out more about the man I was possessed by.’

‘You won’t like him, he’s an art critic.’

‘Augh!’ Spooky was horrified. ‘Could there be any more accursed creature!’

‘Not for a writer,’ Peter concurred.

‘I’m just glad you haven’t got us up on assault charges.’ Gabrielle was so relieved they were all still friends.

Spooky waved off the injuries. ‘You know how to settle that score.’

‘A bottle of whisky,’ Peter figured.

‘Two.’ Spooky held up two fingers and wiggled them about. ‘One for each bump.’ He looked back to the footage and chuckled again. ‘Bonus.’

‘And I have my ending.’ Safe in that knowledge, Peter just couldn’t stop grinning.

‘Congratulations.’ The horror writer shook Peter’s hand. ‘You’re still alive! In which case it would seem my job here is done.’

Once they had seen Spooky gone, Peter and Gabrielle retreated with their wine-filled glasses to the lounge room. They were huddled together on the lounge watching the fire and the rest of the place was deathly silent. No ghosts, no guests, it seemed not just quiet but empty.

It was such a big house, and yet he frequented only three or four rooms. Peter still didn’t feel the estate belonged to him, yet he had a responsibly to maintain this place and help keep its creative history alive. In the wake of it all, Peter felt incredibly honoured to have been given the opportunity to begin his writing life in such inspiring and conducive surroundings. How many other people like him were out there, working a job they hated while dreaming up storylines they didn’t have the time, energy or confidence to write down?

‘What do you think of the idea of turning this place into a writers’ retreat? We could start a Penelope Whitman Foundation and grant residencies here.’

‘I think that’s a brilliant idea.’ Gabrielle turned to gaze up at him.

‘This place used to be filled with creative types and lively debate, I want to try and recapture a bit of that.’

‘Penelope would approve,’ Gabrielle warranted, ‘and so would Em. Maybe their spirits will hang around and inspire a whole new generation of artists?’

‘You could be the in-house researcher?’ Peter ventured to suggest — he may have been grinning but his heart was thumping in his chest.

Gabrielle was grinning also. ‘Is that your way of asking me to move in with you?’

He did actually intend to propose they get married, but was rather ill-prepared, due to chasing down his story; a job lot of being a writer. ‘Kinda,’ he replied, having had an audacious idea.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she asked as Peter grabbed her hand.

‘I need to show you something.’ Peter jumped up, and Gabrielle frowned.

‘Now?’ She seemed a little annoyed that they were veering off-topic, when they’d finally got around to discussing their relationship.

‘Actually, wait there,’ Peter waylaid her from getting up. ‘I’ll be back.’ He left the room and headed to the library to have a rummage through the safe. He’d figured Penelope had to have a ring or two somewhere in there, but what he found exceeded his expectations.

‘Won’t be a second!’ He headed upstairs for a quick change.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ She sounded agitated.

‘You’ll see, stay put.’

When he returned, Gabrielle was sitting forward in her chair, sipping wine and appearing decidedly bored. ‘Let’s see it then? What’s so important —’ She gasped at the sight of Peter in the shirt she’d insisted he buy for their dinner date, and he opened wide his arms and did a spin.

‘Super sexy,’ she applauded. ‘Is this you telling me we’re never going to dinner?’

‘Not at all. Tomorrow night, anywhere you like.’

‘Okay.’ She was puzzled.

‘But that’s not what I wanted to show you.’ Peter sat back down beside her and then opened the large flat case in his hand and Gabrielle gasped at the array of sparkling jewelled rings before her.

‘I couldn’t choose.’ It was delightful to see Gabrielle speechless. ‘Gabrielle,’ he began, ‘will you be my in-house research assistant?’

‘Peter?’ Gabrielle hit him for his attempt at humour in such a moment.

‘Well, and marry me too,’ he granted hopefully.

‘Hmmm.’ She held a finger to her lip to repress her smile. ‘Being your research assistant is rather precarious.’

‘But the job perks are totally worth it.’ Peter held up the tray. ‘I would really love for you to pick one.’

Her eyes opened wide at the challenge. ‘You pick one.’

‘All right.’ Peter looked them over and went to choose one.

‘Hmm?’ Gabrielle gave a disgruntled sound, so he just shifted his finger over the rings until she finally change her tune to, ‘Mmm!’

Peter pulled her ring of choice from the tray, and slid off the lounge and onto his knee. He knew what he really wanted to say, and it was time to let her know how much her friendship meant to him. ‘I love you, not for the way you dance with my angels, but for the way the sound of your name silences my demons.’

‘That’s so beautiful.’ Gabrielle was reduced to tears, as she allowed him to place the ring on her finger. ‘You can be romantic.’

‘I didn’t write that one. Christopher Poindexter did,’ Peter admitted with a grin. ‘But the sentiment is all true.’

‘I know.’ She leaned in to kiss him, but frowned and sat back. ‘Oh my God, Grandma is just going off!’ She could hardly repress her joy.

‘What’s she saying?’ Peter was hoping Adejandra was still on his side.

‘She says, yes!’

That night when Peter slept, he did so with his girl curled up beside him, and he set forth into his dream state with no protection and no mental agenda. It felt incredibly liberating to have no story to muse. It freed his mind to think about other things like what his next book might be about, whether he had a next book. If the book he’d written would be well received . . .

He was determined to get his novella finished and cleaned up in the next few days, and then it would be time to book a meeting with Fabrizia.

On that thought, he allowed himself to be drawn into his mental static, but Peter, so used to holding onto his consciousness thread, couldn’t resist returning to the warehouse studio one last time.

The huge warehouse space was no longer littered with Em Jewel’s paintings, it appeared as gutted and empty as when he’d left it that afternoon. Peter’s heart sank in his chest. His muse was gone; and he had no idea where his next story was coming from. I’m really going to miss this place, and you, Em. You were right; I really don’t know what I’m going to do without you. We were a formidable team.

The loss ate him up, with the same intensity as Penelope’s death had. He wished now that their last conversation had not been cut short, as he’d not had the chance to say farewell, or to thank Em for the inspiration. For the first time since Peter had stepped onto the path of becoming a writer, he found himself totally alone in that journey and that notion made him deeply sad.

Peter.

He knew Em’s voice and when he turned in the direction the call had come from Peter was standing in the field outside Henry’s country cottage, which was absolutely overflowing with people — a mismatched bunch of characters, who appeared to be from every different era and place on earth! At the entrance gate to the cottage stood Em, dressed as a man, made up as a woman, and smiling warmly in greeting.

I thought you’d gone. Peter was so filled with joy to see his muse he felt the tears of happiness flowing down his cheeks.

The world is not ready for my fabulousness just yet, she explained her delay.

I’m so glad you found Henry. Peter spotted him serving drinks to the guests at the cottage. You certainly seem to be causing as big a splash among the dead as you did among the living.

Em found this amusing. These people are not here for me, they’re here to see you.

Me? Peter was stunned by her claim, as Em took his arm to guide him into the party.

They all have stories to tell, she advised. And they are here in the hope you might help them as you helped me.

Muses. Peter was completely overwhelmed and excited by the wild array of characters to choose from. Penelope had warned him they would come once he’d fully committed himself to his art. So many stories.

Indeed. Em hugged tight to his arm. So, where shall we go next?

EPILOGUE — THE PROLOGUE

‘HORROR WRITER POSSESSED BY DEBUT AUTHOR’S VILLAIN.’ Fabrizia read the headline from her phone ahead of looking at Peter, her finely plucked brows raised high in question. ‘Whose brilliant idea was this?’

Peter was trying to gauge if his agent was angry or impressed, and he really couldn’t tell. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Spooky any more grief as he already owed him two bottles of the good stuff. ‘Mine . . . it was a bit of cross-promotion?’ he hazarded an explanation.

‘Well, between this and your involvement in the police investigation at 4 Kismet Way, I’ve had all the big five publishers on the phone expressing interest in the rights to the story.’

‘How did they even know you were my agent?’ Peter was stunned, delighted and intimidated all at once.

‘Spooky credited as much in his post, that’s how my network works . . . and keeps working. But this?’ She looked back to her phone and had a chuckle. ‘This is priceless!’

Peter breathed a sigh of relief — his agent was actually thrilled. ‘Have you had a chance to read Em’s story?’ He thought he was asking a little much, as he’d only emailed it over last night.

‘Of course I did.’ She placed the phone aside, to get down to business. ‘It had me up till all hours.’ She paused to smile sincerely, and Peter wondered if she realised how the suspense was killing him. ‘It’s wonderful, Peter, and a perfect accompaniment to Penelope’s novella.’

‘Yes!’ Peter jumped right out of his seat, clenching both fists to his chest in victory, ahead of air punching with his right. ‘Sorry, I’m just so relieved.’ He shook off the thrill, and stood still.

‘Perfectly understandable,’ she allowed with a smile. ‘But, there is a but.’ She motioned with her eyes for him to sit back down.

‘I know I’ll need to write about what happened to the characters in Penelope’s story.’ Peter realised there were some kinks to iron out.

‘Yes there is that. Between these two novellas we almost have a novel.’ Fabrizia came over to take a seat on the lounge next to him, which made Peter feel a little more wary than if she’d gone to sit behind her desk as it seemed to indicate the problem was personal, not business. ‘I feel this book is missing a prelude,’ she was frank. ‘A whole other story that links the other two tales together. Your story.’

‘Mine!’ Peter was horrified.

‘You’re the one who solved the mystery.’

‘I . . . had a lot of help,’ Peter objected. ‘And it was not of a conventional nature.’

‘Listen to me. This murder scene you uncovered at 4 Kismet Way gives that title a whole new meaning. And,’ she spoke up over his next pending objection, ‘we don’t want people thinking you are trying to capitalise on Penelope’s fame, like her last co-author. But if you tell the story of how this book came to be, then all the parts of this tale that need fixing will fall into place.’

Upon consideration, Peter couldn’t argue with that. Still, he was dazed by the proposition of exposing himself and his method in print. ‘I did have dealings with ghosts, Fabrizia.’ He decided he must come clean with her about that. ‘People are going to think I’m a loon.’

‘And what do you think of the other writers you’ve met?’ Fabrizia posed, not batting an eyelid at his qualms.

‘They’re all a bit eccentric.’ Peter smiled, conceding her point.

‘Who cares what people think, so long as they buy your book?’ Fabrizia encouraged. ‘People love a good ghost story, especially one you can prove.’

Peter was feeling braver now. ‘So, if I do as you suggest?’

‘Then, get ready to whip up some hype over your debut novel; we have media interviews and meetings with publishers lined up back to back all day.’ She slapped his knee to dispel his shock as she stood.

‘Whoa, seriously?’ Peter felt he’d gone from dipping his toes in the shallows of publishing, to being flung straight into the ocean.

‘Seriously.’ She moved to collect her bag from her desk.

Peter was expecting it would be ages before he’d have to face any media — debut authors were seldom cast into the limelight, and the prospect was as exciting as it was nerve-racking. He knew all the facts of the case, but at the same time, he must be careful not to give away too much of the plot. He’d once wondered, when the book was done, if he’d feel naive or proud of his achievement, and the truth was he wasn’t going to get time to even think about it.

‘You look petrified.’ Fabrizia was obviously amused by how green he was. ‘Did you think writing the book was the difficult part?’ She laughed. ‘My dear young man, that’s just the prologue, now the real work begins.’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TRACI HARDING is one of Australia’s best loved and most prolific authors. She has published several bestselling books and been translated into several languages. She lives on the beautiful Hawkesbury River in NSW.

ALSO BY TRACI HARDING

THE ANCIENT FUTURE TRILOGY

The Ancient Future: the Dark Age (1)

An Echo in Time: Atlantis (2)

Masters of Reality: the Gathering (3)

The Alchemist’s Key

THE CELESTIAL TRIAD

Chronicle of Ages (1)

Tablet of Destinies (2)

The Cosmic Logos (3)

Ghostwriting

The Book of Dreams

THE MYSTIQUE TRILOGY

Gene of Isis (1)

The Dragon Queens (2)

The Black Madonna (3)

TRIAD OF BEING TRILOGY

Being of the Field (1)

The Universe Parallel (2)

The Light-field (3)

THE TIMEKEEPERS

Dreaming of Zhou Gong (1)

The Eternity Gate (2)

AWOL (3)

The Storyteller’s Muse

COPYRIGHT

HarperCollinsPublishers

First published in Australia in 2016
by HarperCollinsPublishers Australia Pty Limited

ABN 36 009 913 517
harpercollins.com.au

Copyright © Traci Harding 2016

The right of Traci Harding to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000.

This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

HarperCollinsPublishers

Level 13, 201 Elizabeth Street, Sydney, NSW 2000, Australia

Unit D1, 63 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand

A 53, Sector 57, Noida, UP, India

1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF, United Kingdom

2 Bloor Street East, 20th floor, Toronto, Ontario M4W 1A8, Canada

195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007, USA

ISBN: 978 0 7322 9941 5 (paperback)

ISBN: 978 1 4607 0315 1 (ebook)

National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Harding, Traci, author.

The storyteller’s muse / Traci Harding.

Storytellers — Fiction.

Deception — Fiction.

A823.4

Cover design by Hazel Lam, HarperCollins Design Studio

Cover image by Colin Anderson/ Getty Images