Beyond the Longcase Clock E-Book

Hayley Patton

• Herausgeber: Silver Frog Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Serie: Chronicles of the Chiliad
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 471

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

An ancient spell gone wrong. 

A legacy of time travel. 

The latest unsuspecting heir. 

Fifteen-year-old Sophia McAskie can see an object's past just by touching it. She doesn’t know why. She can’t control it. And she doesn’t know she can time travel. Finding out will be an epic adventure…

One day, while cleaning the grandfather clock in her dad’s antiques shop, Sophia accidentally sends herself and her brother tumbling into the house of a Victorian gentleman. Before she can figure out what happened, a mysterious time traveller with sinister plans demands their custody, igniting a gruelling chase through unfamiliar times and foreign lands.

Lost and on the run, with no idea how to get home, the siblings win the help of an intrepid local boy in their battle for survival. But in a web of magic and hidden agendas, who can they trust?

When a devious figure tears the siblings apart, Sophia must master her powers if she is ever going to find her brother and return home to safety. If she fails, they’ll be trapped in the past forever…

Beyond the Longcase Clock is the first book in the YA fantasy time-travel series Chronicles of the Chiliad. If you like fast-paced adventure, vivid historical settings, and unpredictable magical powers, then you’ll love the first instalment in Hayley Patton’s compelling new series.

Buy Beyond the Longcase Clock to embark on this exciting journey today!

Leseprobe

Beyond the Longcase Clock

Chronicles of the Chiliad

Hayley Patton

First published 2019 by Silver Frog Press

Copyright © 2019 by Hayley Patton

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-9160968-2-0

www.hayleypatton.com

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

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End of Book Support

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Prologue

In the ancient city of Kish on the banks of the River Euphrates, the night-time breeze blew across the densely packed buildings, cooling them after a day of baking in the sun. While the rest of the city’s inhabitants slept, the priestess Gemeti sat cross-legged on the flat roof of her quarters, watching as the moon crested the horizon. Her astrology tutor had said there would be a lunar eclipse. A blood moon. It was a sight not to be missed.

Gemeti lived inside the vast temple complex that towered over the modest streets of Kish. Her position was highly coveted by young girls across the city. With it came honour, prestige and eventually power. At seventeen she was the youngest of the priestesses, only ordained a year earlier, following a decade of training and study. She had been selected for training on the basis of a prophetic dream she’d had at the age of six. Seers were highly valued in her community, and the majority went into the priesthood.

She scrambled to her feet and climbed down the ladder into her quarters below. Pulling her scarf over her head, she slipped on her sandals, grabbed her satchel and hurried out of the door. The courtyard was empty, but the breeze carried the sounds of snores and hushed conversations. Gemeti skirted the open space, keeping to the shadows until she was out on the street.

The ziggurat, an imposing terraced pyramid and house of Zababa, god of war and the patron god of the city, rose like a mountain from the earth. It was a sacred place, and only members of the priesthood were permitted to ascend its steep stairs. Gemeti meandered her way between the residential buildings towards the bottom of the vast staircase. She was destined for the shrine on the uppermost tier, because she wanted to be as close to the blood moon as possible. She scaled the steps quickly at first, glancing around for onlookers, but slowed to a plod about halfway up.

The tiers of the ziggurat grew shallower as she rose, but even the uppermost tier, which supported the shrine, was the height of several men. She suppressed a yawn as she entered, hoping that Zababa would forgive her when she presented her offering. Her father had asked her to pray for her family, and for their success in battle. She was from a wealthy trading clan, and her ambitious father had bribed the general into giving her brother a position of authority in the Emperor’s army. He would soon be leading a contingent to fight against a neighbouring city to the north. It was his first opportunity in this leadership role, and he needed all the help he could get.

Gemeti kneeled before the screen that shielded the statue of Zababa from view, and announced her presence. The Entu – high priestess – Nidintu forbade her from passing behind the screen. It was a privilege afforded to only the most senior of the priesthood, and Gemeti was a long way off that. The punishment for disobeying this rule was severe; the perpetrator would be thrown into the river as a test of their innocence. Drown and you were guilty; swim to shore and you were innocent. Yet she felt that she had no choice but to continue. Her parents were desperate for her brother’s success.

Nidintu had been appointed high priestess because she was the niece of the Emperor. Aside from her powerful connections, she was not one to be messed with. Gemeti remembered when a priest had accused Nidintu of consorting with demons. The case went to trial, and as no evidence could be found, he was sentenced to death for the false accusation. Gemeti suspected that the priest had told the truth.

She shuddered as she pattered around the screen and kneeled at the statue’s feet. It stood tall and imposing, yet Gemeti couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. The tales and rumours of its grandeur had been blown out of all proportion. She opened her satchel, removing a loaf of bread and unwrapping a slab of smoked meat, which she laid ceremoniously on the plinth. The responsibility of feeding and clothing the living god lay with the Entu. Gemeti was usually relegated to playing music during Zababa’s mealtimes, untrusted to come within six feet of the screen. She sat murmuring her prayers of strength and protection for her brother for a few minutes before retreating so that Zababa could eat in privacy.

The night sky drew her outside, and she skirted around the shrine to be out of view of the stairs. She would return later to collect Zababa’s leftovers so there would be no evidence of her prohibited escapade.

The moon was higher in the sky now but was not yet stained crimson by the Earth’s shadow. Gemeti looked about her for somewhere to hide. Her eyes followed the sloping bricks up the side of the shrine, and she wondered whether she could climb it. From what finer spot could one view the blood moon than the top of the world?

With some difficulty, she clambered up the side and heaved herself onto the roof. The breeze whipped her scarf against her face and she removed it, clutching it in her hand with arms outstretched as the wind blew through her hair. After a while she grew tired, placed her scarf on the flat roof and lay on top of it, staring up at the firmament.

It wasn’t until she heard voices that she realised she had fallen asleep. She sat up, forgetting for a moment where she was. The moon had dimmed to a dusky orange, and a few hours had passed. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and crawled to the edge of the roof. The view below caused her heart to leap into her throat.

Nidintu was wandering about on the large terrace below. She was preparing for a spell, although Gemeti didn’t know what kind. Witchcraft was forbidden throughout the city and punishable by death, but she had heard rumours of its use among the priesthood. Nidintu had created a seven-pointed star on the ground around the circular firepit, with neat lines of black sand criss-crossing it.

On each point of the heptagram stood a child lashed to a post, some drugged and unconscious, some silently weeping. Nidintu made the final adjustments to the set-up, pouring more sand and stoking the fire. She looked up at the moon, and seeing the edge of the shadow creep across its face, she began her incantation.

Nidintu stood at the edge of the star, closed her eyes and raised her hands in the air.

“I call on you, Mammetum, goddess of fate. I call you forth from Irkalla. Hear my prayer and grant my wish. Accept my offering of seven innocents, one to honour each of the great celestial bodies. First Sîn, the moon god, god of fertility and prosperity…”

Nidintu lit the torch fixed to the top of the post of the first child and moved to the second as she introduced the relevant gods.

“Next, Šamaš, the sun god…”

Gemeti had to do something. She didn’t know what the Entu was hoping to achieve, but she understood it must be a powerful spell if it involved the sacrifice of seven children. Besides, this was magic, and therefore illegal. She considered running to get help, but by the time she reached the residential quarters, Nidintu’s spell would be long finished.

She scrambled back to the other side of the roof and swung her legs over the precipice. Her vision swirled about her and she collapsed to the side, hugging the low wall for dear life. The climb up had been difficult, but in her tired state, she had not considered the descent.

Nidintu’s voice rang out. “Ninurta, god of war and hunting…”

Gemeti squeezed her eyes tighter for a final second. She had to climb down to stop Nidintu. She rolled onto her stomach and felt around with her foot for somewhere to rest her weight. Her hands shook and her legs wobbled. Inch by inch she scraped her way down to the terrace. When she landed at the bottom, she crept around the side and peeked around the corner.

Nidintu’s golden diadem glittered in the firelight. She lit the final torch and said, “To Nergal, god of plague.”

Gemeti stared at the proceedings. She didn’t understand what Nidintu was trying to achieve and was unsure of the best way to stop it.

The sky darkened and Gemeti looked to the moon. The Earth cast its shadow, enveloping the orb in a fiery crimson dusk. Now that everything was arranged, the sacrifice would begin.

Nidintu lifted her arms in the air, appealing to the goddess of fate. “Mammetum, I seek your wisdom, your power. Bestow upon me the gift of providence. Make a disciple of me, a sister of your will. Allow me the power to seek the future and voyage into the past, so that I may carry out your wishes in corporeal form. O mighty Mammetum, accept my first sacrifice in the name of Sîn…”

Nidintu pulled a dagger from her belt and slit the throat of the first child. Gemeti suppressed a cry, clutching at the amulet around her neck. She watched aghast as Nidintu progressed around the heptagram, cutting in the name of each of the gods. The blood appeared black in the firelight as Nidintu collected it from each of the victims in a chalice before returning it to the fire in the centre. With both hands she held the chalice up to the sky, the blood moon reflecting in the sacrificial liquid.

Spurred from her paralysis, Gemeti sprinted to the first boy and wrapped her scarf around his neck. His cut was not deep, and it would take him a long time to bleed to death.

“I offer myself to you, Mammetum,” said Nidintu, facing away and unaware of the intruder. “Let me be your vessel.” She lowered the cup to her lips and took a sip.

The fire spurted upwards, sending sparks across the star. Gemeti would not let Nidintu become the vessel of Mammetum. There was a wickedness in her that, if fuelled by the power of a god, would bring nature to her knees. Gemeti crept forward, picked up the dagger stained with the blood of seven innocents, and plunged it into the back of the high priestess. The chalice clattered to the floor.

A light erupted from Nidintu’s core, so bright that Gemeti threw herself to the ground and shielded her eyes. The glare illuminated the terrace like lightning, and as she lay on the black sand of the heptagram, Gemeti watched through her fingers as it radiated out towards the victims. She ducked as it swept over her in a wave, the pressure causing her ears to pop. Darkness fell and she raised her head. Nidintu lay still and dull beside the fire. The seven children glowed, their skin iridescent before gradually fading to pallor.

Gemeti crawled over to Nidintu and rolled her onto her side. Her eyelids fluttered.

“You play with fire, priestess,” Nidintu croaked. “The power of Mammetum is eternal, and unstable when split. Part of me is with them now. My spirit is wedded to Mammetum’s gift, and when each child dies, I will find another host. A chiliad of hosts may pass, but my spirit will reunite. I shall be as Mammetum intended.”

Her face stilled and her eyes stared upwards, unmoving. Gemeti checked Nidintu for a pulse but the Entu was dead.

If what she’d said was true, Nidintu’s soul would live on in each of the children, passing to another person at death, for one thousand iterations, providing them with an unknown power bestowed by Mammetum.

A groan from behind her reminded Gemeti of more urgent matters. As she freed the children and tended to their wounds, she vowed that she would not rest until the power of Mammetum was dispatched back into the netherworld.

Chapter One

Sophia glanced over her shoulder. The shop was empty, and all she could hear was the pattering of rain against the window. Hopefully, the miserable weather would discourage potential customers from venturing out of their homes. Her father, Stuart, had recently acquired a watch and was repairing it in the workshop that opened on the back of the sales floor. She placed the cloth and the glass cleaner down on the cabinet.

It was the perfect opportunity.

Sophia slid open the back of the glass cabinet, wincing as the mahogany frame groaned slightly. She thought the whole shop could do with refurbishment. It had been in Sophia’s family for generations.

MacAskie & Sons, est. 1923, Jewellery and Fine Antiques.

Many of the original fixtures remained, which Sophia supposed was appropriate, if musty. Not much good for sneaking around though. Everything creaked.

Peering over her shoulder a second time for good measure, Sophia reached into the cabinet and picked up the brooch. Her hands tingled as she held it up to the light. The large oval amethyst was set in gold and surrounded by two rings of seed pearls. The sign that sat next to it on the plush velvet described it as Victorian. Sophia weighed it in her hand. It was heavy, and she wondered how anyone could wear it without it tearing their clothes.

She froze as a noise caught her attention. It was fast, upbeat. Thrumming in time with her heart. A piano. Saxophone. Jazz music. Her father must have put it on while he was working, which was unusual, as he liked to listen for the bell above the entrance door alerting him to customers. At least it would cover any noise she might make.

Sophia had been drawn to the brooch the moment she saw it, when she and her brother were dropped off by their mother at the shop last week. It had glinted in the sunshine and Sophia had pressed her nose to the window, gawking at it. Her father said it had been auctioned off in a house sale when an old lady died a few months ago. It was a bargain, he said.

Sophia stepped over to a free-standing mirror and held the brooch to her chest, debating whether her thin top would cope with the weight. A warm draught blew against the skin on her forearms, at odds with the weather outside. Perhaps there would be a thunderstorm if it was this muggy. Sophia pulled her top away from her chest to cool herself. She felt sticky.

A hint of lavender wafted past. Sophia sniffed and wrinkled her nose. The scent seemed to be coming from the brooch. She’d never realised that jewellery could absorb smells. Lavender she usually liked, as it reminded her of her grandma, but now it was making her queasy. Her stomach gave a lurch and Sophia pressed a hand to her mouth.

The room spun. Feeling disorientated, she leaned on the frame of the mirror. Perhaps if she focused on something, the spinning would stop. Looking in the mirror was not such a good idea; the reflection of the room spinning was even worse. The blood pumped in her ears to the beat of the music. Had her dad turned up the radio? Sophia closed her eyes for a few seconds until her balance returned.

She reopened them and sucked in a huge gasp of air. Her peripheral vision was a blur, but directly in front of her, she could see the back of a woman who was sitting at a dressing table, looking in the mirror perched on top, which Sophia was sure hadn’t been there before. Maybe she hadn’t been paying much attention to her surroundings earlier. The shop was often so full of random furniture that it appeared as if things sprouted up while one’s head was turned.

The woman didn’t notice Sophia. Her blonde hair was short and waved, cropped close to her head, revealing a slender neck. She hummed along to the jazz tune in the background.

“Excuse me,” Sophia attempted to say, only it came out as a croak. How had Sophia not noticed her before? The lady held a bottle of perfume and dabbed a little onto her wrists and behind her ears. No wonder Sophia could smell lavender. The woman must have been there all along, secreted in a corner somewhere.

Sophia tried to back away but found her feet rooted to the spot. The room was a hazy shimmer of colour. Only the woman was visible clearly.

The lady picked up the brooch from the dressing table in front of her and pinned it to her dress. Sophia was sure she hadn’t put it down. She squeezed her hand, and the points of the metal pressed into her flesh.

How does she have an identical brooch? wondered Sophia.

She crouched down so she could see the reflection in the mirror more clearly. The woman leaned in and applied some rouge to her cheeks, her bright blue eyes gazing critically at her face. She still hadn’t noticed Sophia. Sophia leaned down further to get the lady’s attention, but her chest tightened when she noticed her reflection was missing.

Sophia glanced down at her body, relieved to find it was still visible, if a little blurry. In the mirror, beyond the woman’s reflection, was a faint outline of a girl. Sophia checked behind her but only saw a swirl of colour. She leaned towards the mirror as the girl’s reflection solidified. She had long brown hair and fair skin. A smattering of freckles across the cheeks. With a jolt Sophia realised she was seeing herself.

Whatever was happening had to stop. Sophia tried again to force her feet back, but they were still glued in place. She felt weak at the knees and her stomach churned.

“Sophia?” said a faint voice, drowning in the sound of the music.

She spun her head around, searching for the source of the voice. She realised it was her father. He’d kill her if he caught her with the brooch.

The brooch, thought Sophia. Maybe that’s what’s causing this.

She knew she needed to let go of it as soon as possible, but if she dropped it, it would get damaged. Sophia shivered at the thought of how many days’ work it would take to repay her father if she broke it. Sophia reached out for where she thought the cabinet was in the swirling fog of colour, and her empty hand knocked into the glass.

As her grip on the brooch loosened, so did the hold on her feet. She stumbled forward towards the cabinet and something grabbed her wrist, prising the brooch from her hand.

“Sophia, what are you doing?” As soon as her hand disconnected from the brooch, the swirling colours transformed into a swirling shop. Her father loomed over her with his eyes narrowed.

“You’re supposed be cleaning the glass, not playing with the antiques. Do you know how old this is? This is an 1873 antique brooch in excellent condition. It’s fragile and you could have scratched or broken it.”

The twitch below her father’s left eye started up. Sophia anticipated a lecture. She leaned over and rested her hands on her knees, taking deep breaths to slow the spinning.

“Are you okay?” asked Dad as he put the brooch back on its velvet cushion. “You’re looking a wee bit green.”

“I’m fine,” said Sophia. “Just dizzy. Probably just need some fresh air.”

They both looked out of the window at the rain bouncing off the pavement.

“You look clammy,” Dad said, holding his hand to Sophia’s forehead. “I think you might have a temperature.”

“No, Dad, I’m fine, honestly.” Sophia did not want her dad to think she was ill. He wasn’t the best nurse, often getting panicky when either she or her brother had even the slightest cold. Sophia and Oscar had spent only their holidays in Edinburgh with their father since the divorce, and he worried their mother would think he wasn’t looking after them properly if they got ill.

She tried to change the subject. “Where did that woman go?”

“What woman?” he asked, looking around. The shop was empty. Had she just disappeared?

“The blonde one, in the dress?” said Sophia. “I’m sure I saw…”

“Right, no more work for you. If it wasn’t for the fact that you look like death warmed up, I would assume that your imagination has run away with itself again.”

He slid the cabinet door closed and locked it, tucking the keys into his pocket.

“I just hope you’re not hallucinating,” he said under his breath.

“Hey, I heard that!” Sophia agreed that she had a tendency to daydream, but she was sure what she’d just seen wasn’t a figment of her imagination.

“Up to bed. Now.”

Sophia groaned. As boring as she found it, working in her dad’s shop had been a good way to earn money.

“But, Dad, I need money for climbing—”

“You’ll have plenty of time to earn extra money this summer. One day off won’t do you any harm.” He took her by the shoulders and guided her through the maze of furniture and display cabinets towards the workshop.

Sophia looked over her shoulder at him as he pushed her along. “Can’t I just have a break and come back in an hour or so? I’m sure I’ll feel better later.”

He pulled open the door that led to the flat above. “Nope. Get up those stairs, now. I’ll come and tuck you in if I have to.”

“Ugh, Dad, I’m fifteen. I don’t need tucking up in bed.”

He just raised his eyebrow to emphasise his threat.

“All right, I’m going, I’m going…”

“I’ll be up to check on you soon.”

Chapter Two

Sophia stared up at the poster tacked to the sloping ceiling of her attic bedroom. It showed her two favourite female climbers tackling one of the terrifying big-wall routes in Yosemite. Over the past few years, Sophia had been covering the faded Winnie-the-Pooh wallpaper that adorned the walls and the sloped parts of the ceiling with posters taken from climbing magazines. Her room at her mother’s house was more to her liking. There was nowhere to bang your head, and it had been stylishly decorated a year ago.

After an hour-long snooze, Sophia’s stomach had settled and she felt better. Yet she still lay on her bed in case her dad popped up like he’d threatened to. She fumbled around for her phone so she could listen to some music and noticed she had a message from her friend Lilly.

See you at the climbing wall in an hour?

Sophia chewed on the inside of her cheek. She had agreed to go climbing with Lilly a week ago. Lilly was one of her few friends in Edinburgh, and she was infatuated with Dean, one of the climbing instructors at the local wall. He was nineteen years old and had recently qualified. Lilly had insisted that she and Sophia sign up for an improvers’ course a few weeks ago, once she found out that Dean would instruct it.

Sophia was part way through writing a reply saying she had to stay in when another message came through.

You haven’t forgotten, have you? You promised, remember?

She considered asking her dad whether she could go but realised that would be a non-starter. The whole experience earlier was bizarre. Her rapid recovery puzzled her. And what had happened to that woman? Sophia realised she needed to talk to someone about it, and that someone was Lilly. They had shared all their secrets growing up, so if anyone would understand, it would be her.

Perhaps she could go along for an hour and get back before Dad closed up the shop.

Sophia replied to say she was coming, and hauled herself off the bed, collecting her climbing gear from around the room. It was messy as usual. Sophia found her rucksack, pulled out her rock shoes from under the bed and found her harness in the pile of clothes that had collected next to her washing basket. She had a habit of throwing her clothes at it across the room, but half the time she missed and was too lazy to pick them up.

She had everything together except her sport rope and her purse, which she retrieved from the laundry basket, tipping out the contents on her desk. Five pounds and seventy-three pence, four euros and nineteen cents (from her last trip to France to visit her grandparents), a used tram ticket and a button. She hadn’t realised her funds had got so depleted.

Sophia changed into a T-shirt and leggings, and arranged her bed so it looked like she might be sleeping under the duvet. She went to collect her rope from its usual place on top of the wardrobe only to find it missing. After searching high and low, Sophia came to the inevitable conclusion.

“Oscar!” Sophia stormed down two flights of stairs. “Where are you?”

“In here!” Her brother’s voice floated in through the dining-room door.

“Have you seen my—? Ahh!” Sophia swung the door open and tripped up, falling into a tangle on the floor. She lifted her head to see Oscar sitting on the dining-room table, a knife in his hand and a mess of wood shavings surrounding him.

Oscar was twelve years old and the only family member she saw every day, as they alternated between staying with their mother in Stirling, where they went to school, and their father in Edinburgh during the holidays and on occasional weekends.

Sophia pulled herself to her feet and realised that Oscar had used her sport climbing rope to construct a fence around the table using the dining chairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sophia asked, lowering her voice in case Dad heard her.

“Carving,” said Oscar, hiding under his dark fringe.

Sophia took a deep breath. “I meant with my rope.”

He shrugged. “Oh, I was just practising my knots for Scouts.”

“So you had to use my sport rope?” said Sophia, waving her arm. “Couldn’t you have used string?”

Oscar looked up. “String’s not big enough.”

Sophia held her hand to her head. “Oscar, you can’t just go into my room and take my stuff.”

“But I didn’t,” said Oscar, mouth gaping. “You left your rope in the living room.”

Did I? thought Sophia.

She picked at the knots, freeing the rope. “Look, this is an expensive piece of equipment. Safety equipment. You do realise that if you damage this, I might seriously injure myself?”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Stop worrying. It’s fine. I thought you were supposed to be in bed, anyway. Dad said you’re ill.”

Sophia avoided his gaze as she searched for the ink marking at the middle of the rope. “Well, I’m better now.”

“Are you going climbing?” asked Oscar.

“Mind your own business,” said Sophia, taking coils over her shoulders.

“I’ll tell Dad…”

Sophia gave Oscar an icy stare. “That’s a sharp-looking knife you’ve got there. Does Dad know you have it?”

“He gave it to me,” said Oscar.

“Oh, really? Like I gave you my rope?”

“You’re giving me your rope? Thanks, Sophia!”

Sophia’s nostrils flared. “No, I am not giving… Look, if you tell Dad I’ve gone out, I’ll tell him you nicked his knife.”

“He’ll notice anyway,” said Oscar.

“Not until he closes the shop. If he asks how I am, say I’m sleeping and don’t want to be disturbed. Okay?”

“Tell him yourself.”

Sophia spun around at the sound of her father’s voice. “Dad! I, um, was feeling a bit better, so I thought I would—”

“Oh no, you don’t. Do you really think I’d let you go climbing when you’ve been feeling dizzy? What kind of father do you think I am?”

“I…”

“Or were you going to forego asking and sneak out?”

“What? No, of course not…”

“Come on, back up those stairs, Sophia.” He lifted the rope from her shoulders and placed it on a chair.

“Shouldn’t you be in the shop?” asked Sophia.

“The shop will survive for five minutes without me. I came to check on you. I expected you to be tucked up in bed. You looked as green as grass earlier.”

He shepherded Sophia up the stairs to her bedroom and left her to sulk. She pulled out her phone and stared at it a while before she could muster the courage to cancel on Lilly.

Really, really, really sorry. Dad won’t let me come.

Sophia switched off her phone and shoved it under her pillow. She knew Lilly would be furious. It was best to give her some time to calm down. Sophia spent the next few hours curled up in bed reading a novel, her mind wandering as she read, so that by the time Dad called her down for dinner, she realised she would have to reread the last few chapters to know what was going on.

“If you’re feeling up to it,” said Dad as he cleared away the dishes, “you should practise the piano. Isn’t your tutor coming tomorrow?”

Sophia sighed. “Yes.”

Sophia’s mother, Katia, was away on a business trip in France and, not wanting Sophia to fall behind in her practice, had arranged for her piano teacher to visit her at her father’s flat in Edinburgh. Katia was a software engineer, and because she was a native French speaker, her boss had concluded that she would be the best person to represent the firm in their collaboration with a finance company in Paris. Fortunately, the trip coincided with the school holidays, which Sophia and Oscar usually spent with their father.

Dad retreated to the study to read while Oscar went for a bath, so Sophia had the living room to herself. She fetched her phone and put it on top of the upright piano before sitting down on the piano stool. The instrument had belonged to her grandmother, who loved to play. Her grandparents had moved out of the flat to a bungalow in a small seaside town ten years earlier when Grandpa Fergus retired, passing the business over to Dad. Grandma took the piano with her but passed it on to Sophia three years ago when she couldn’t play any more, because of her arthritis. It had now been returned to its original place in the lounge, tucked in the corner behind the sofa.

Sophia stroked the cool ivory keys with a finger. Her grandma had died six months ago. Playing her piano felt like conversing with her. She found the music sheet and stretched out her hands.

She grabbed her phone and switched it back on. It buzzed to inform her of the seven texts and three missed phone calls from Lilly. She ignored them and phoned Lilly straight away.

“So now you call?”

“Hi.”

“I looked like a right plonker at the wall by myself. I had to stay in the bouldering room the whole time.”

The bouldering room was a separate area at the climbing venue where people could climb without using ropes or harnesses, as the low wall height and soft floor made landing safe. Climbing on the main wall required a partner to belay you so that they could lower you to the ground or arrest a fall.

“I’m sorry. I would’ve come, but Dad wouldn’t let me.”

“We arranged this over a week ago. I had it all planned out. We’d turn up, climb some tricky routes… Dean would see my incredible climbing skills and fall madly in love with me. But no thanks to you, that’s not going to happen.”

“We could still go next week?” asked Sophia.

“I’m going to Spain, remember?”

“Oh yeah. How can I make it up to you?”

“How about we meet up on Thursday? You can buy me ice cream.”

“Sure. Look, can we talk? Something weird happened earlier—”

“Hannah was there today. I saw her from the foyer. She was definitely flirting with him. She’s not even good at climbing…”

“So, this morning,” said Sophia, “I was in Dad’s shop cleaning the glass on one of his display cabinets, you know, for the jewellery and stuff, and—”

Sophia heard the click of a computer mouse.

“Oh my God, she’s been chatting with him online!”

“You’re not listening, are you?” asked Sophia.

“Yeah, I am,” Lilly said. “You were cleaning the window in the shop. How did she get to be friends with him—?”

“So, I picked up this brooch, and then I went dizzy and was seeing things.”

“What, like stars?” asked Lilly.

“No. There was a woman wearing the brooch,” said Sophia, “and she looked old-fashioned, like she was from the 1920s.”

“Do you think I should make contact? Will he even know who I am?”

“Um, I don’t know. Maybe,” said Sophia. “Where was I? Oh yeah, everything was all blurry, including me, except the woman. And when I looked in the mirror—”

“Maybe you need glasses,” said Lilly. “You should get your eyes tested. But make sure you get cool glasses. Send me a picture before you buy any. You don’t want to look like a granny. There, I sent it. What if he doesn’t recognise me?”

Sophia heard a shout from Lilly’s mother in the background.

“Got to go. Mum wants me to pack. I don’t understand why I can’t just pack on Friday. Anyway, see you Thursday. Bye!”

Lilly hung up before Sophia could even say goodbye. Sophia set down the phone and started her practice. Her mind wandered as her eyes followed the music and her fingers bashed the keys. She was annoyed with Lilly for being so wrapped up in fantasy she wouldn’t listen to Sophia’s story. Maybe it was Sophia who needed to reacquaint herself with the real world. Maybe she had imagined the whole thing. She hadn’t felt dizzy again since seeing the mysterious woman. But everything had seemed so real.

Sophia kept making a mistake about thirty seconds into the piece she was playing. Focus, she told herself. Start over.

Mr Buchanan would be disappointed if she couldn’t at least play all the way through. She closed her eyes, trying to play from memory. The jazz tune from earlier competed with the classical piece in her mind, and she pressed the keys harder to squash it down. It was no use. She gave into it, seeing the lady with the brooch again. Only this time there was no dizziness. It was just a memory.

Sophia wondered whether the woman would return to the shop. Perhaps if she touched the brooch, it would happen again. Would she even want to do that? Sophia shook her head and slammed the piano lid. She was being ridiculous. She probably had a dodgy stomach and was hallucinating. Or didn’t have enough sugar in her system. Maybe she’d had an allergic reaction to the lavender. She sat tapping her fingers on her knees. Well, it wouldn’t do any harm to check, would it?

Chapter Three

Sophia woke with a start. Her face was cold and wet. She sat up in bed to find Oscar grinning and holding an empty jug.

“What was that for?” demanded Sophia, rubbing her face.

“Dad says you’ve got to get up. Mr Buchanan will be here soon.”

“You didn’t need to throw water on me. Get out.” Sophia chucked her pillow at Oscar, which just missed him as he dived through her bedroom door. Sophia glanced at the clock on the wall. Nine thirty.

She jumped out of bed and pulled on some clothes, ran downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself some cereal. Sophia’s nose wrinkled. A stench of varnish hung in the air, growing in potency as Sophia trudged into the dining room.

“Ugh, what’s that smell?” she said, pinching her nose as she carried her bowl. Newspaper was arranged across the oak dining table, and a small wooden figure stood next to a pot of varnish. She moved through into the living room, where the odour was less pungent, and sat down on the couch next to Oscar. He held the controller for the game console, his eyes glued to the screen.

“What did you make?” she asked.

“Can’t you tell?” He glanced at her before his eyes locked onto the screen again. “It’s Batman.”

“Really?” Sophia said with her mouth full. “Maybe if you painted it, it would look more like Batman.”

He waved his hand. “You just don’t appreciate art.”

Sophia shrugged. She wondered whether she had time before her lesson to go into the shop and pick up the brooch. Deciding it was worth a try, she wolfed down the rest of her cereal, dashed to the staircase and walked right into Mr Buchanan.

“How did you get in?” she asked before she could stop herself.

He looked at her with lips pursed.

“I mean, hi, Mr Buchanan.” Sophia wiped at her mouth, checking there wasn’t any breakfast residue. He’d grown a beard since she had last seen him, and his hair was longer, tied back in a low ponytail. He’d been the keyboard player in an obscure band in the nineties, and when that hadn’t worked out, he’d switched to teaching classical piano. His hair was the only reminder of his more mellow days.

“Good morning, Sophia,” said Mr Buchanan. “I came in through the shop. Your father said I could head upstairs.”

“Oh,” said Sophia, staring at him. The brooch would have to wait until the afternoon.

He cleared his throat. “Well, are we going to stand on the stairs all day?”

“Sorry,” she said as she moved aside.

Oscar had vacated the living room in a hurry, leaving the game he was playing suspended in action on the television screen. Sophia switched it off, not bothering to save the game. Oscar always made himself scarce when Mr Buchanan was around. He used to take piano lessons too, but one day he had unintentionally insulted Mr Buchanan’s early music career, and all parties had decided it was best if he didn’t continue.

The piano lesson went as Sophia expected. Mr Buchanan was disappointed with her lack of progress.

“Sophia,” he said after she mixed up some notes. “Have you been practising at all?”

She looked at him sheepishly. “A bit.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sophia, how many times do we have to have this conversation? If you want to take your piano playing seriously, you need to practise every day.”

“Sorry, I forgot.”

Once the lesson was over and Mr Buchanan had left, Sophia flopped down onto the cracked leather sofa, lying with her legs stretched out, staring at the cornice on the ceiling. She didn’t dislike Mr Buchanan but he could be intense sometimes. The apprehension of his disapproval was why she had gotten to Grade 7 so quickly. His disappointed face was enough to make even a concert pianist feel like they hadn’t put enough effort in.

After showering and having lunch, she descended into the shop. Her dad was busy talking to a customer about a wristwatch in the window, which meant that examining the brooch was out of the question for now. She meandered around the furniture, looking at the antiques for sale.

A small oblong case piqued her interest. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. It was engraved with a flower motif and had a cap at one end. The old bell rang as the customer left the shop. Sophia opened the case and pulled out the object nestled inside. There were two pieces of tortoiseshell encasing a metal blade with a fixing at one end so that the device could be opened.

“Dad, what’s this for?” asked Sophia, holding it up.

He looked over his mug of coffee and grinned. “That, my wee lassie, is a nineteenth-century thumb lancet made in London by William Reynolds.”

Sophia’s brow crinkled. “But what is it for?”

“For draining the blood of a patient.”

“Ew,” said Sophia, putting the lancet back in the case and rubbing her hands on her jeans.

“They were a common piece of equipment carried by doctors. Bloodletting was an accepted medical treatment for thousands of years, for a variety of conditions. The general belief was that the body contained four basic humours, which were concentrated in particular organs and each associated with a particular personality type.” He began to tick them off on his fingers. “There was blood for the brain and the sanguine personalities, phlegm for the lungs and phlegmatic types, black bile for the spleen and melancholic, and yellow bile for the gall bladder and choleric.”

Sophia stifled a yawn. She wished she hadn’t asked. That was the problem with asking Dad a question. Once he was on a favourite topic, he could talk for hours.

“… so being ill meant that your humours were out of balance. If there was more of one than of the other three, then doctors would try to remove the excess humour. Blood was often considered the most dominant of the four, and bloodletting became the standard treatment. They would use it for all sorts of diseases: cholera, diabetes, leprosy, pneumonia, consumption (that’s tuberculosis), stroke, epilepsy, cancer—”

“So basically everything?”

“Aye, pretty much.”

Sophia used the pause in Dad’s lecture to change the subject. “What do you want me to do?”

“Huh?” Dad had glazed over and gone to what Sophia thought of as Boring History Land.

“I thought you wanted me to help you in the shop.”

“Oh yes. Yes, I did. Now, let’s see…” He ducked behind the wooden counter and pulled out an old digital camera and a piece of paper. “I want you to find these items and take pictures of them. For the smaller ones, you can take them into the workshop. I’ve set up a background on the table. Make sure you get the best light. Oh, and wear these.” He pulled out a pair of white cotton gloves. “Some of the items are fragile. Be careful.”

Sophia narrowed her eyes. “Are you sure? Yesterday you told me off for touching the brooch.”

Dad scratched his head. “Well, perhaps I was a bit harsh. I just don’t like people touching things they shouldn’t. I’m giving you a big responsibility with this task. If you don’t think you can handle it, I can find something else for you to do.” He paused for a moment. “The customer toilet needs a deep clean.”

“I think I’ll manage,” said Sophia, pulling the gloves on.

Sophia set to work. After an hour an opportunity presented itself. A deliveryman knocked on the open back door as Sophia was balancing a fan against a polystyrene block on the table.

“All right, hen,” he said, looking around the workshop. “The boss around?”

He stank of cigarette smoke and Sophia attempted to hold her breath.

“I’ll just get him,” she said, dashing through into the main shop. She found her father’s legs sticking out from under a table.

“Dad?”

“Hm?”

“Delivery for you,” she said.

“Ah, yes. That’ll be the clock.” He scrambled out from underneath the table, leaving Sophia alone in the shop. She knew she didn’t have much time, so she headed straight for the counter to collect the keys for the cabinet, then unlocked it, faking a cough to cover any noise the mahogany frame made as it scraped open.

She picked up the brooch with her gloved hands, brought it up to her nose and inhaled deeply. Furniture polish. Coffee. A hint of cigarette smoke. Was it the woman who smelt of lavender? Voices drifted through the cracks in the door, her father telling the deliverymen to be careful, and them responding that this wasn’t the first time they had moved something valuable. Sophia pulled off the gloves. Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers across the amethyst in the centre, and then over the pearls that surrounded it.

Nothing. No jazz music. No woman. No perfume.

What was I expecting?

The deliverymen were saying goodbye to Dad, so Sophia thrust the brooch back onto its velvet stand. She had just replaced the keys at the counter when her dad returned.

“Bloody couriers,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “They nearly chipped the base. Come and see.”

Sophia followed him into the workshop, glancing back at the cabinet. To her horror, she realised that she had locked the cotton gloves in the case with the brooch. She would have to distract Dad somehow so he didn’t notice. A tall grandfather clock stood wrapped in plastic. Her father took a pair of scissors and cut away the wrapping.

“It’s eighteenth century, a mahogany longcase clock by John Parker of Liverpool, with an eight-day movement.”

The clock was tall, well over six feet high, and layered in dust. Above the clock face was a dial with the night sky and a moon that was partially obscured by one of two brass semicircles.

“But there are only seven days in a week,” said Sophia, stalling while thinking of a way to retrieve the gloves.

Dad smiled. “The eight-day movement refers to the time the clock will run before it needs winding up again.” He ran a finger along one ledge and examined the amount of dust. “Well, this will be your next project. It needs a good clean. Once that’s done, I’ll set about getting this thing working again.”

“Dad,” said Sophia with her hands behind her back. “I think this fan’s broken. I can’t get it to open right. Can you fix it? I’m going to fetch the next item on the list.”

Sophia left the room, taking care to shut the door behind her. She leaped up onto the counter, leaning down to retrieve the keys, and had just made it to the cabinet when her father followed her into the shop.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, Sophia,” said Dad as she hovered in front of the cabinet. “You have to be careful that you’re opening it the right way. See?” He demonstrated with a flourish that made Sophia cringe.

“Ugh, Dad, please don’t do that.”

He chuckled as he returned the fan to the workshop. Sophia retrieved the gloves, replaced the keys and exhaled. She spent the rest of the afternoon completing the task set for her and uploading the photos onto the old computer in the tiny office adjoining the workshop. Dad came in to check on her progress.

“Dad, what are the photos for?” Sophia asked.

“Oh,” he said, waving his hand, “insurance purposes. And for my inventory.”

“You should put them on your website. They’re extremely professional,” she said as she spun around on the office chair, “if I do say so myself.”

“Oh, I don’t bother with a website. It’s too much hassle.”

Sophia’s jaw dropped. “You don’t have a website?”

“Nope,” he said, straightening his back. “This business has been running for one hundred years without a website. I don’t see why it needs one now.”

Sophia wondered whether it was comments like this that drove her mother up the wall. They were opposites.

“You should get one. I’m sure Maman would be happy to help.”

He shook his head. “No, your mother is a busy woman. She doesn’t have time.” He left the office and wandered to the front of the shop.

Sophia trailed after him. “Well, why don’t you set one up yourself? I can help. I’m sure they’re not that difficult. You might get more customers.”

“I get plenty of customers, thank you very much.”

Sophia held her hand to her ear. “I’m sorry, what did you say? I can’t hear you over all the noise.” She gestured to the empty shop.

“Oi, cheeky,” he said, giving her a gentle tap on the head with a pencil. “It’s nearly closing time. Why don’t you make yourself useful and start dinner?”

Chapter Four

“Sophia!”

Her head whipped around in search of Lilly. They had agreed to meet at the Grassmarket, a large square sitting below Edinburgh Castle, which during the summer saw vast crowds of tourists. Sophia spotted Lilly standing on a bollard waving and weaved her way through the throng.

“Glad you made it,” said Lilly, jumping down and giving Sophia a hug. “Mum keeps pestering me. I had to escape the house. What do you want to do?”

Sophia shrugged. “I don’t know, whatever you want.”

“Let’s head towards Cowgate.”

They meandered across the sunny square, buying ice creams from a stall. Tourists jostled them as they walked, taking photos and not paying attention to their surroundings. Lilly persuaded Sophia to join her in photo-bombing people’s pictures, but when one woman got very annoyed and shouted at them, they ran off.

As they sauntered along Cowgate, stepping into the road to pass people on the narrow pavement, Sophia gazed up at the buildings above. She sometimes forgot how impressive the streets were in the Old Town, criss-crossing each other at different levels. Promoters shoved leaflets for upcoming shows in their faces, trying to catch punters before the official start of the Fringe Festival in a few days’ time. They were passing under a bridge when a sign caught Lilly’s eye and she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Oh my God, we have to go in there!”

Lilly pulled Sophia into a narrow street that sloped uphill towards the Royal Mile. She stopped outside a tiny shop, about six feet wide. Sophia read the sign above the door.

Ophelia House

Palm readings - Tarot readings - Runes - Astrology

“This is perfect,” said Lilly, her face animated. “She can tell me if Dean likes me.”

Sophia’s shoulders sagged. “A fortune-teller?” What a complete waste of time. She could tell Lilly what Dean thought of her. Lilly wouldn’t like the answer though. “Don’t you think it’s a scam? Something to con tourists out of their money?”

Lilly crossed her arms. “It’s only a bit of fun. You don’t have to do anything. Just watch.”

“All right, fine. It’s your money you’re throwing away.”

Lilly grabbed Sophia’s hand and dragged her inside. They passed down a small corridor and through a pair of heavy velvet curtains that opened into a small seating area. Little daylight penetrated into the building, and the main source of light was the flame-shaped electric bulbs held in sconces on the walls. A U-shaped couch nestled into the alcove, and incense burned in a little pot on the coffee table. New Age music floated out from a hidden speaker.

“Where is she?” whispered Lilly.

A small wooden door, lower than Sophia’s head height, stood closed with a sign on it reading “Consultation in Progress”.

“She must be busy,” said Sophia. “Let’s go.”

Lilly grabbed her hand to stop her. “Aw, Sophia, please? Can we wait a wee while? She might finish soon.”

“Okay, but if she’s not out in five minutes, then I’m leaving.”

Sophia sat down on the couch, crossed her arms and rested the back of her head against the wall. The hairs on her arms stood on end even though she wasn’t cold. Something felt off.

Lilly picked up a leaflet from the table. “What do you think I should get?”

“What are the options?” asked Sophia.

“Well, there’s a tarot card reading, a psychometric reading or a palm reading.” Her face fell. “They’re more expensive than I was expecting. She must be legit if she’s charging this much.”

The little wooden door opened and two middle-aged women emerged.

“Ooh, you’re in for a real treat, girls!” said one woman with an American accent as they left, both giggling.

Sophia frowned as Lilly watched them with awe. A small woman with waist-length black hair and a patterned-print floor-length dress appeared at the door.

“Good afternoon,” she said, bringing her palms together like she was praying, and giving a slight bow. “How can I help you?”

Lilly cleared her throat. “Well, I was interested in getting a tarot reading, but after looking at the prices, I’m not sure I have enough money.”

The woman turned to Sophia. “And you?”

“Oh, I’m here for moral support.” Sophia nodded over at Lilly.

“You look young. Are you students?”

Lilly nodded.

“I offer a twenty-five per cent discount for students. Does that help at all?”

Lilly’s eyes brightened. “I have just enough!”

“Good,” said the woman. “Shall we go through?”

The consultation room was furnished with a round table and three chairs. In each corner of the room stood a wrought-iron candlestick holding a chunky candle, perfuming the air with sandalwood.

“Please, take a seat,” said the woman. “My name is Ophelia. What’s yours?”

“Lilly, and this is Sophia.”

“Okay, Lilly. It was a tarot reading you requested?”

“Yes,” said Lilly.

“The session lasts thirty minutes and I require payment upfront.”

“Of course,” said Lilly, handing the money over. Ophelia opened a hidden drawer on her side of the table and put the money away before pulling out a stack of tarot cards. She gave them a quick shuffle and passed them to Lilly.

“Please close your eyes and take a few minutes to calm your mind, taking slow, deep breaths. There is information you seek. Something you desire. Perhaps the outcome of an event. How to effect change. The meaning behind someone’s actions. As you breathe, try to form a clear idea of what you want to know. It can help to form an open question, something without a yes-or-no answer. The accuracy of the reading will depend on your concentration.”

Sophia watched as Ophelia laid her palms on the table and closed her eyes. Her inner forearms were adorned with delicate vine-like tattoos sprouting from her elbow creases. After what seemed like ages, Ophelia spoke again.

“A clear question should have formed. Take the cards and mix them up on the table. Focus on the question as you do so, taking care to touch each card.”

Lilly did as she asked, and Sophia had to suppress a smirk at her reverence. Once Lilly had finished, Ophelia gathered the cards into a pile and laid the top ten out in a formation on the table.

“This is the Celtic Cross,” said Ophelia. “The first card represents your present.”

She turned over the centre card.

“The Seven of Cups. This represents illusion, dreams and fantasy, often reflecting the fact that choices and plans have little basis in reality. Implementing these plans will lead to inevitable disappointment. This could also suggest temptation or jealousy. The next card will tell us more.”

She turned the second card over. It faced Sophia and showed an angel holding a trumpet, looking down from the clouds at the people below who held their arms up to the sky.