They worked on, steadily sorting the wheat from the chaff, ignoring some of the faces Flora pulled at the more outlandish items. Xanthe was happy to have Gerri’s support for their new room. She knew her mother had agreed to it to please her, and it helped to have the input of a person whose taste they both trusted. Even though they were no longer in the financial difficulty they had been when they first bought the shop, every space in it still had to earn its keep. Mr. Morris’s mirrors had been taking up too much space and moving too slowly. She had been forced to swallow her pride and call Theo Hamilton again. She did not enjoy having to contact her rival antique dealer and offer him the pieces after turning him away the first time, but needs must. Fortunately he had still wanted the mirrors as a job lot, though he had not been above making her work at getting his forgiveness for his previous wasted journey when she had changed her mind about selling them. In the end his eye for a bargain had won out and they had agreed on a fair price. Her hope was that the vintage clothes would attract new browsers, extra shoppers who might not otherwise visit an antique shop. Once over the threshold, who knew what they might be tempted to buy?
“Oh, look at this, love.” Flora held up a black sequined dress. “You could wear it for your next performance with Tin Lid.”
Xanthe laughed. “Not unless we start booking gigs in a jazz club, Mum!”
“I think you’d look lovely in it,” she insisted. “I bet Liam would agree with me.”
“He usually does.”
“Such a nice boy.”
“He’s smart enough to know how to get around you,” she said, taking the dress from her mother and hanging it on the rail. “Anyway, he doesn’t really notice what I wear.”
Gerri raised her eyebrows. “From what I’ve seen, he notices every little thing about you.”
“We’re just good friends.”
“With benefits?” Flora asked, giving a pantomime wink.
“Mum! You know full well what that means. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
“I’m assuming friends who help and support each other?” she replied innocently, while Gerri tried not to laugh. “He’s been so good, running you around when your car broke down, driving the van to pick up bigger pieces of furniture.…”
“Right, firstly please don’t ever use that expression again. Secondly, Liam and I are perfectly happy with the way things are between us, thank you very much.”
Flora and Gerri pointedly exchanged looks that clearly told her they thought otherwise.
* * *
Later, after she had shut the shop for the day, Xanthe said goodbye to her mother and headed for The Feathers. Her irregular but increasingly frequent chats with Harley had become an important feature of her week. While Benedict Fairfax might not have shown himself again, he was still ever on her mind, and her determination to be ready for him next time she saw him occupied her thoughts whenever she was alone. However, between the shop, Flora, the band, and of course, Liam, it was difficult to find clear time to focus on the madness of what she had experienced since moving to Marlborough. Sometimes the pull of normality and the wish to believe all was safe and sensible prevented her from facing what she knew, in her heart, had to be faced. The fact that Fairfax never did anything without a reason. The fact that he was not a man to give up on something he wanted. The fact that he had proved himself capable of doing anything in order to further his own interests. Which was why she felt blessed to have Harley—publican, local historian, hairy biker, and true friend—as a confidant. He alone knew the truth of where, and more important when, Xanthe went when she was away from Marlborough. He knew about the Spinners; she had shared their secrets and their precious book with him and no one else. And she had told him about Fairfax. Speaking with Harley about so many impossible things made her feel just a tiny bit less crazy, and a tiny bit more in control of what was happening. And now that she had decided to properly study the Spinners’ writings she was eager to test her theories about its contents with him.
She found Harley fixing new window boxes to the sills of the pub. He was a burly man, big rather than fat, but not in the best of shape. She heard him puff a little and curse quietly in his endearing Scottish lilt as he wrestled the heavy, soil-filled boxes into position.
“I’ve never thought of you as a gardener, Harley. Will you be arranging flowers next?”
“You are so bloody funny. Don’t just stand there, hen, hand me that hammer, would ye?” He gestured at the pile of tools on the pavement. Passersby were forced to step into the street to avoid the muddle.
“Must be spring,” said Xanthe, passing him the hammer. “Window boxes going up, Harley sighted out from behind the bar.”
“Not for long,” he said, taking a large staple from the pocket of his biker’s leather jacket, placing it through the flower box stay, and bashing it into place. She watched him work for another five minutes. At last he was satisfied, brushed mud from his hands, and picked up his tool kit. “Right, that’s me done. I’ll leave the tending of the plants to Annie. Come away inside. Winter might be over but it’s still cold enough to freeze a man’s ears off, if ye ask me.”
The pub was in its late-afternoon lull: lunch service over, evening meals not yet started, and no live music scheduled. Harley grabbed two bottles of Henge beer from behind the bar, removing their tops with practiced ease, signaling to his wife and the young man working with her that he was going upstairs. Xanthe, after pausing to say hello to Annie, followed him up the slightly wonky staircase to the apartment on the floor above. The sitting room was warm, comfortable, and in its customary state of barely contained chaos. Harley moved a stack of motorbike magazines from one of the worn leather sofas and subsided onto it, handing her a beer as she joined him.
“Did you bring the time travel manual with you?” Harley asked with the now familiar note of awe that crept into his voice when he spoke about the Spinners tome.
She nodded, taking the old leather volume from her bag and passing it to him.
Harley took a swig of ale and wiped his beard with the back of his hand, then wiped his hands on his trousers before carefully, almost reverently, taking the book from her. “This is an incredible thing you have in your possession, hen.”
“I read a little every day and still there is so much to learn. It’s not just the stories; there are maps, drawings, poems, recipes, spells even. It’s crammed full of stuff. The tricky thing is working out what’s real. I mean, what’s instructions, and what’s just, I don’t know, cautionary tales?”
“Aye, it’s not your straightforward user’s manual, that’s true enough.”
“Sometimes I feel stupid not being able to properly understand what I’m reading. Some pages make more sense only because I’ve been back in time. I can relate parts of what is written to my experiences but, well,” she gave a shrug, “it’s easy being wise after the event. What I need is clues for what I do next. How to use what I’ve learned to travel better. Safer. With more control.”
Harley smiled. “I’m just pleased I can see anything written there at all,” he said, referring to the fact that Spinners did not reveal its contents to everyone. Xanthe had wondered about this fact since they had first discovered it. The book could not be copied, nor could it be read by just anyone. Why had it chosen to let Harley see its secrets? He did not have her gift of psychometry, nor did he ever glimpse the past. No objects sang to him, and when she had taken him to see the blind house in the garden he had detected nothing strange or magical about it at all. In the end, she had concluded that Spinners wanted him to be able to help her. It shared its wisdom and stories with him just enough for him to be able to give her his support and input. The subtlety of the way the book guarded its knowledge astonished her. It also made her feel all the more privileged. It was as Mistress Flyte had told her. She was a Spinner. Her journeys through the centuries had not been random experiences, caused by stumbling upon powerful objects and coming to live near the blind house. It was all meant to be. She was learning who she was, or at least, what she could become. She briefly entertained the thought that one day she might be able to travel back and visit her friend and mentor, and the thought of having such control and such freedom thrilled her.