Cat's Quill (17 page)

Heidi's smile reinforced that he'd done the right thing. "You boys enjoy yourselves. Any arguments and I'll be up to sort you out." Her gaze traveled from one to the other and back again. "Both of you."

Nodding, Tomas walked out of the room briskly, Mikey on his heels. It wasn't until they were halfway up the stairs that the thought struck him. "Hey," he exclaimed. "What happened to you thanking her for breakfast?"

Mikey's expression grew smug. "I already did that before I sat down," he said. "I already told you.
I
have manners."

* * * *

The attic was dark when they entered, the low wattage light bulb Mikey switched on adding little more than a dim glow to the room. It was smaller than Tomas expected, a little larger than his own, the ceiling beams exposed in triangle shapes following the slope of the roof. It was high enough for him to stand, but if he held his hand up, it brushed against the lower point of one of the supporting struts. Windows were curtained on either side. Mikey crossed the room quickly and opened them, the sunlight exposing wooden floorboards which looked as though they hadn't seen varnish for years, if ever, but they, like the attic, were clean and dust-free. That, Tomas presumed, would be down to Heidi.

Boxes lined one side of the room, none of them labeled, newspapers stacked in one corner, pieces of cardboard next to them, cartons pulled apart but never disposed of. An old rocking horse with a faded mane and one remaining painted eye watched Mikey while he struggled with the latch on the window, finally getting it open, hooking it on the first hole, enough to let fresh air and a faint breeze in but not much else.

He shivered. "I only come up here if I can open the window and the curtains. It feels weird otherwise." Lowering his voice, he glanced around nervously, keeping a cautious eye on the rocking horse. "Old places where people don't go much do that. Even Blackthorn doesn't come up here." He pointed to a series of mouse traps strategically placed along the skirting board. "That's why those are here."

Tomas raised an eyebrow, his eyes scanning the room for the trunk he'd been told about. "You don't believe in ghosts, do you?"

"Of course not!" Mikey's denial was a little too emphatic; it didn't mesh with the way he kept watching the old rocking horse. Tomas walked past it, pushed on it lightly with one finger, the creaking noise as it began rocking raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Mikey jumped. "Why the fuck did you do that for?"

"Does your father know you use language like that?" Tomas noticed something wooden peeking out behind a couple of boxes and headed in that direction. The trunk. It had to be!

"Nah." Mikey shrugged. "He wouldn't care anyway. He's too busy with work. Always has been."

"At least you have a father who cares about you," Tomas replied almost absently, his attention drawn to the large trunk now in front of him. Fumbling with the catch, he opened it. Damn, it was heavy, the hinges stiff with disuse. It appeared as though no one had opened it in years, not since Donovan had originally found the letters.

"Don't you?" Mikey was by his side, helping him with the lid. Tomas looked up, scowling; he hadn't even noticed the kid move.

"No." Tomas answered after a moment's pause. Although Mikey was nosy as hell, there was no point in lying to him. "My parents died in an accident when I was young. I don't remember much about them."

"Oh." Mikey was silent for a moment. "So what's in the trunk?" His tone brightened. "You're looking for something specific, right? I can tell."

"No." This time Tomas snapped the word. "I'm just looking." He held the lid so that it wouldn't fully open, preventing Mikey from seeing what might be inside. "Don't you have stuff to sort through for your jamboree?" He indicated the old-fashioned hanger from which hung a selection of what looked like men and women's clothing in the style of the 1920s. "Why don't you see if any of that has survived being eaten by moths? My sister says retro's in at the moment. It might be worth a bit."

"I feel sorry for her." Mikey straightened up, but instead of walking toward the clothes, he tried to peer over Tomas's shoulder. "I try to help and you nearly bite my head off. Geez."

"Sorry for whom?" Tomas glanced around the room, looking for something else to distract Mikey with. The rocking horse creaked in reply, the momentum of the tap Tomas had given it still lending it movement.

"Your sister." Mikey shivered, zipping up his hoodie. "Look in your damn trunk then. See if I care." He stalked over to the other side of the room behind the rack of clothing, obscured from view, although the dull thud of something hitting the floor strongly suggested he'd found something else to grab his attention. Hopefully, whatever box he was destroying would keep him busy long enough for Tomas to do what he needed.

Gingerly, Tomas opened the lid, letting it go once he'd satisfied himself that the hinges were intact enough to keep it upright without needing his assistance. Dropping onto his knees, he began carefully sorting through the contents, running his fingers across the fine cotton that lay across the top before pulling it free, almost dropping it when he realized he was holding a woman's undergarment. Chastising himself, he took a closer look, feeling himself relax when said undergarment turned out to be a cotton lace petticoat. Draping it over the lid, he examined the dress it had protected. It was white, very delicate-looking and long, with a high bodice and a brooch of pink roses at the neck. Peeking out from underneath where the dress was lying in the trunk was netting, stitched onto a comb, faded dried flowers clinging to it, holding the veil....

He stood, holding up the dress in order to see it properly to confirm his suspicions. It was an old-fashioned wedding dress, the petticoat and veil completing the outfit. Had it been hers? Something clattered onto the floor, shaking free as he'd opened the dress out to get a better look. Tiny black pellets, solidified with age.

Shit!

Mouse droppings!

Throwing the dress onto the petticoat, Tomas began sorting through the rest of the contents of the trunk, frantically remembering what he'd read about mice. God no, the letters had to be still intact. They had to be.

Muslin wrapped around something solid. A small wooden box. Fingers shaking, he took off the lid to come face to face with a crystal vase, the twin of the one that had been left in his room. Checking the box again, he noticed a card on the outside, the corners of it chewed but enough to make out the lettering.

Alice,

All my love,

C....

Bloody mice. They'd gnawed the rest of the name. "C. C what? Who the hell is C?"

"Christian." Mikey spoke softly, the sulky tone of a few moments before completely gone. "Her husband's name was Christian."

"How do you know that?" Tomas turned at the boy leaning over his shoulder, wondering if he moonlighted as a ninja. Alice and Christian were characters in a book. This had to be a coincidence.

A hand dived into the trunk, Mikey sneaking past him quick as lightning to retrieve a half-gnawed pink ribbon already unraveling around its precious contents. Now loose from their constraints, previously wrapped groups of papers fell into the trunk.

"No!" Tomas pushed Mikey out of the way, but it was already too late. Spread across the trunk were the letters he'd been seeking, pages still together but now hopelessly out of any order they might have once been in.

He picked the first one up and groaned aloud, cold fingers of disappointment crawling up his spine. Even without Mikey's help, his work was cut out for him. The mice had feasted well, nibbling through a gourmet of fancy rose-embossed paper to leave a hole right through the middle of it.

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Chapter Eleven

"Fuck!" Tomas whispered hoarsely. He couldn't have come this far to lose to some bloody mice. Frantically he opened the first letter, hoping and praying that the damage done by the rodents was not too severe. The pages of the letter were numbered; the date at the top of the page read "17 November 1930." Her writing was legible, a flowing hand that was easy to read. That, at least, was one small mercy.

My darling Christian,

Even now I still hope that you will return to me
.

Scanning the page and then the ones folded with it, Tomas sighed in relief. The ink was faded, but the words could still be made out. The mice had nibbled straight through the middle of each page, but he could guess at the missing words. Putting that letter down, he picked up another. It was obviously in the same state, with a ragged hole through the middle of each page.

The second letter appeared to have been written several years earlier; it was dated 1925. It began the same way, addressed to her husband, Christian. Damn it. He'd have to sort them into date order before he could start reading. This one referred to someone called Wynne.

Hold on.

Wynne? Wynne Emerys? Surely she couldn't have known him? Was that why the postcard had been left in the book? Was it a clue to a connection between them?

Tomas swallowed, his excitement growing. Dropping from a half-crouch to his knees, he began picking up the rest of the letters, shuffling them into a pile.

"You can't do that." Mikey shoved in from the side of the trunk, grabbing the rest of the letters, holding them against his chest and taking a step back when Tomas glared at him.

"Let them go!" Tomas hissed. "Heidi said I could look through this trunk. I want those letters!" He fought the urge to add a please on the end, determined not to let the little shit get the upper hand.

"Why?" Mike smirked at him. "They're not yours." He made a tsk-tsking noise. "You really need to work on those manners. Reading other people's letters is a no-no." Keeping his grip firm, he opened one of the letters while shoving the rest of the pile under his arm. "But then you are my elder and I'm supposed to respect you, right, so maybe it
is
okay to read them." His voice rose into a false falsetto, his eyes scanning the letter in his hand. "My darling Christian. I miss you even as the baby I--"

"Give it here!" Tomas lunged for the letter, but Mikey took a step backward. Damn it! He couldn't get this close to lose out to this bloody kid. If Alice knew Wynne, the letters could hold some of the answers he sought.

Mikey grinned. "Heidi's going to hear us if you keep yelling at me." He shook his head. "Even if it's okay to look in the trunk, I'm sure neither she nor Donovan would be happy about you taking the letters."

Taking a deep breath, Tomas stepped between Mikey and the trunk. He needed to find some way to get the remaining letters back. Knowing his luck, those would be the ones containing the crucial bits of information. There was also the problem of keeping him silent. "How much?" he asked.

"Excuse me?" Mikey's widening eyes didn't quite give the aura of innocence he was most probably aiming for. If the kid possessed a halo, which was highly unlikely, it was more likely to be black and have little horns attached.

"How much do you want for them?" Mikey was after something he could use to fundraise for his jamboree. Everyone had a price. It was just a case of finding his.

"Money?" Mikey stared at Tomas and then at the letters. A slow smile crossed his lips. "Or maybe something else? I am open to negotiation, you know." He took another step back.

Tomas frowned. This was not going the way he'd planned. "Something else?" His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Like what?"

"Tell me why you want them so badly, and I'll think about it." Mikey tucked the letter in his hand back into his pile and opened another, this time reading it silently.

There was no point in lying. Tomas took a deep breath. Telling the truth, or at least some of it, might be the way to go. "They were written by an artist who used to live in this inn, and I think she knew a writer I'm researching."

Mikey nodded slowly. "Yeah, I've seen some of her stuff." His grip on the letters loosened, but not enough that making a grab for them might work, especially with the distance Tomas would have to cover. "She liked dragons."

"What makes you say that?" There was nothing Tomas had seen to suggest that, and he wasn't about to believe anything Mikey said without good reason.

"I've seen some of her stuff," Mikey repeated, waving the letter he'd been reading at Tomas. There was something that could have been a dragon doodled down the side of the page, but it was difficult to see unless he got closer. "Dragons." Taking a piece of gum out of the pocket of his hoodie, Mikey unwrapped it and popped it into his mouth. Chewing thoughtfully, he refolded the letter and tucked it under his arm with the rest of his pile. "The way I see it," he said, "I have these letters you want, and you could do something for me I want." A pink bubble formed and popped before Mikey resumed chewing. "We could help each other out."

"What do you want?" Tomas sighed. Mikey was being far too cooperative. The other shoe had to drop. Whatever was doodled on the letter could have been an overgrown grasshopper, for all he knew. Mikey was yanking his chain; if he'd found out about the book, he'd know there were dragons on the front cover and could be using that information to get what he wanted. But what if that doodle really was a dragon? It could be further proof that Alice and Wynne were connected. A thought struck him, and his breath hitched. She was an artist, and
In Hidden Places
was beautifully illustrated. No, she hadn't been credited for the artwork. He was reaching.

"I like dragons," Mikey announced as though that explained everything. "I want to find out what the letters say. They said she saw stuff, but then they said she was crazy too." He glanced at the door behind him, as though he expected to see Heidi there, lowering his voice when she wasn't. "I'm not supposed to know about the gossip, but people forget I'm there and I hear things."

Great, Mikey wanted to help. Tomas fought the urge to point out that this was his quest, and Mikey could go find his own. Hang on, when had this become a quest? He sure as hell wasn't a knight, and there weren't any damsels in distress who needed rescuing.

The only person he was interested in was definitely no damsel and probably would not be happy being compared to one. However, Cathal did seem determined to believe that there was no sequel. The letters Mikey was holding could contain the proof that there was.

"Okay." Tomas tried to ignore the feeling he'd just signed his soul away to a teenage devil with red hair. "You can help me." He held his hand out for the letters.

"No." Mikey shook his head. "You get them when I know I can trust you and we have a working partnership. That's the deal." Another bubble blew and popped. Tomas would have liked nothing better than to rub the pink goo all over Mikey's mouth, or better yet, use it to gag him with. "Part of it anyway."

"Part of it?" Tomas gritted his teeth, reminding himself that yelling at the kid--correction: his new partner, would only serve to bring the situation to Heidi's attention.

"I want your help." Mikey licked the gum off his face with his tongue and began chewing again. "I found some stuff to build this really cool skateboard ramp. I can't do it on my own, and my dad's too busy to help me." He grinned. "But now I figure I've just found someone who will."