Mist & Whispers Page 2

  Stephanie was in the office taking advantage of another manager’s perk (chatting on Facebook and Instagramming pictures of her new shoes) when Iain began reminiscing about when Anya was a little girl.

  ‘I remember the first day you came into the store. You had... Oh, what was her name... you know, your care worker, the one with the grey nest of hair she used to cover with that awful maroon bobble hat?’

  ‘Rosa?’

  ‘That’s the one! She was a little odd, if my memory serves me well!’

  Anya smirked.

  ‘You were clutching onto that note from your mother like you’d find her hiding in here or something. Your little face,’ his lips pressed together sympathetically. ‘Rosa didn’t seem to care very much, which, again, was odd given her working role. I always got the feeling that place didn’t do a particularly good job at providing what the children needed. That’s why I used come and read to you all, before I got too old. I used to think, if it were my Wade growing up in a place like that, I’d want someone to come and read to him, help him escape even if only for a little while...’ He paused, his attention directed to the door.

  Anya looked over to see what was troubling him but was puzzled to find nothing there. ‘Everything ok, Mr Scott?’

  Without even a blink, he answered, ‘Yes, child, nothing to worry about.’ Then he looked up at the clock on the wall and said, ‘I’m going to the office. If anyone comes in asking for me, or for the store owner, you tell them I’m not here, alright? Wade’s taking me on holiday in a few weeks and I’ve a lot to prepare for whilst I’m away, so I don’t want to be disturbed. You understand, don’t you?’

  ‘Ok,’ Anya said slowly, not really sure why she couldn’t just say he was busy.

  ‘Thank you, child,’ he said, his smile soft and grateful. He joined Stephanie in the office (who quickly replaced her internet browser for next week’s unfinished rota) and left Anya alone behind the counter. After a while spent twitching her thumbs, she picked up a book and began to read. She was barely a page in before the bell on the door tinkled, letting her know someone had come in.

  If the place had been frosty all day down to the tension between her and Michael, it was nothing compared to how it felt now.

  The air tingled and a grey fog cloaked a dark figure standing by the door. His footsteps creaked eerily on the old floor boards, and as he approached her, his features became clear. His skin was callous and lined, as if he’d been hard at work for the last century, though he couldn’t have been more than mid-thirties. She noticed his clothes; he was dressed in the most bizarre way, as if he’d taken the military-look that had not long gone out of fashion and put his own fantastical spin on it. And she found herself mesmerised by his eyes; a smouldering, dark grey, and... Is he wearing guy-liner?

  She couldn’t make out his accent as he spoke.

  ‘Hello,’ his voice was low, the word spoken slow and moody. She got the feeling that pleasantries were an unfamiliar territory to the man.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  He strolled around the shop floor as if he owned the place, taking in every inch of it. ‘I’m looking for someone,’ he announced whilst thumbing a few books on a shelf. ‘A man.’

  She took a breath. ‘I’m the only one here right now, sir.’

  He smiled to himself. ‘Hmm. I can see.’

  Anya shivered. She felt the pit of her stomach pull. Something about this man wasn’t right.

  ‘What about when you’re not here? There must be others... colleagues, a manager... the owner perhaps?’ He spoke as if he already knew the answers.

  He placed a Stephen King book down on the cash desk and his hands came to rest either side of it. Anya noticed he had a strange mark on his right hand. A scar shaped like... like something familiar, but from upside down her brain couldn’t quite work out what she was looking at. Wings, possibly.

  The man cleared his throat and Anya realised she’d been staring a moment too long. She rang the novel through the till and tried to remain as calm as she could. ‘Well, there is a boy who works here some days, but you couldn’t exactly call him a man.’ She forced a smile, hoping that would be enough to end his questions.

  He smirked, handed her some cash and then shoved the book under his arm.

  ‘Well.’ He paused. ‘Thank you.’ He made his way to the door.

  ‘Sorry I couldn’t be more help,’ she called after him, stuttering slightly.

  Then the man did something really strange. He stopped still for a moment, then turned and fixed her with a stare that spoke of confusion and familiarity. He stepped closer and closer, until she could feel his breath on her skin.

  Anya had never felt more invaded, but she kept his stare all the same.

  ‘Have...’ he hesitated. ‘Have we met before?’ She frowned, the question having caught her by surprise, but before she could answer he mumbled, quite unsettlingly to himself. ‘Looks like... No, of course not. You’d know if... No,’ and without even another glance back, he swiftly left the shop.

  RED INK SLICED through name after name after name listed on the second-to-last page of a spiral-bound notebook.

  Anya Belacqua. No. Slice.

  Anya Mortmain. No. Slice.

  Anya Lovegood. Oh, really no! It had sounded whimsical on the character from Harry Potter, but on her it sounded like a porn star. Slice.

  She glanced up at the calendar, thoroughly frustrated with herself. It had been nearly a whole year since her sixteenth birthday and yet, she still hadn’t changed her ridiculous name.

  Ever since she had discovered it was possible, Anya had made it her life’s mission to drop the name the home had given her as a baby. Not Anya; that was the only real thing she knew about herself, her first name. No, it was her surname she desperately wanted rid of. It was bad enough being “that girl” from the Piddling Children’s Home, the poor girl abandoned at birth, but to be named after the home’s founder – Martha Piddling – well, even the coolest of kids would have found it hard to live down.

  She wondered whether they did it out of spite; surely any adult that had attended a public school would have known the sort of torture a kid would go through with a name like that? Couldn’t they have called her something cool, like Mortensen or Riordan – hell, Doe would have been less embarrassing!

  She’d had the Deed Poll forms ready to be filled in the moment she turned sixteen, along with ten week’s worth of school-dinner money she’d saved to pay the fees. Every time she looked at the forms she daydreamed about what her new name could be, listing her ideas in the notebook and crossing them through when she decided they weren’t right.

  She looked down at the last name on the list, the only one that hadn’t been run through with her Sharpie.

  Anya Jo March.

  It sounded good. It sounded classic. The only thing with it was, as great as it sounded, and as much as she adored the novel it came from, it still wasn’t her name.

  Slice.

  SHE MADE HER way down to the kitchen, poured herself a cup of tea then curled up on the sofa in the day room. One by one, she flicked through the channels on the TV, not really knowing what would be on so early in the morning on a weekday. Property auction show – antique auction show – debate show discussing the current wet summer in Britain – another auction show. She hadn’t realised what a dizzying line up she’d been missing during all those years at school.

  ‘No exams today, Anya?’ Simon, the manager of the home, came strolling into the day room. In one hand he carried an oversized spoon and in the other, a bowl, filled to spilling point with Swiss muesli and milk. He sat down on the sofa next to her, taking great care not to drop a single oat.

  ‘No, I had my last one yesterday. My summer has officially started.’ She flicked the channel again and found the news. The presenter was standing outside a Chronicles Book Superstore, microphone in hand and interviewing a snub-nosed man wearing a tan coloured suit. His hair would have only been a few shades lighter t
han her own had it not been for his heinous misuse of hair products.

  She stared at the screen, paying no attention to Simon’s chatter beside her. It wasn’t just any Chronicles store he was standing in front of; it was the store in Little Wolf Green, Scott’s only rival.

  ‘Are you really watching this?’ Simon said, nudging her arm.

  ‘Shush a minute, that’s in the town!’ She shifted to the edge of the sofa and watched intently.

  ‘And how did it feel when you made the discovery at Erimus Hall only those few months ago?’ the news presenter said. She could see his eyes roaming across the camera as he read from a teleprompter.

  ‘Oh, it was just this incredible moment. There was this overwhelming sense of importance, like I knew I had found something of real historic value before I even knew exactly what they were.’

  ‘Come on, Anya, it’s just about those old books. I’ve heard the story a million times over the last few weeks; I’m bored of it now. Can’t we just watch something good for once, something that isn’t a crappy cartoon?’

  ‘This isn’t a crappy cartoon, and can’t you wait so I can hear this? I never get to watch TV or use the internet. Between work and exams, I literally have no idea what’s going on in the world.’ She purposely didn’t mention all the time she’d spent trying not to think about her break up with Michael, despite how much it factored in to her distraction from the real world.

  He snatched the remote from her hands, spilling some of his cereal on his lap. ‘Now look what you made me do, all because you still can’t do as you’re told!’ He plonked the bowl down on the coffee table and angrily brushed the wet cereal from his jeans onto the floor. ‘Seriously, I hope Mr Scott has the patience of a saint, otherwise you won’t keep that job very long.’

  ‘You’re the one who snatched the remote from my hand!’ she snapped back, her jaw dropping in indignation.

  ‘Just go find something to do, will you. Stop irritating people all the time.’ He sat back on the sofa and switched the channel over to Discovery. Bear Grylls was clambering down the side of a waterfall with only a few hanging vines keeping him from a forty foot drop onto jagged rocks.

  Huffing as loud as possible, she stormed out of the day room and grabbed her shoes. How could he be bored of a recent news story – one so recent she had yet to hear about it – but still be happy to watch Bear Grylls drink his own urine for the thousandth time?

  Well, if he wasn’t going to let her watch it, there was only one thing she could do.

  THE WALK INTO town was warm and wet, and the smell of the rain on the pavement made her nose twitch. She hated that smell almost as much as she hated her surname.

  The crowds from the TV were still at Chronicles when she arrived outside, but the news people had already left. The cameras were all gone and she could see the man from the interview inside the shop, walking around like a celebrity with starry-eyed fans at his heel.

  Before she reached the entrance, she spotted someone making a bee-line for her from across the street. Her heart clenched. Talking to him hadn’t got any easier since her first morning at Scott’s, some three weeks ago.

  ‘You’re not going in there, are you?’ Michael said. He was dressed in his finest shirt-jumper combo and holding a stack of papers.

  She tried to keep her cool, not wanting a fight between them to draw the attention of the crowd. ‘I was curious what was going on; they were on the news this morning.’ She looked down at the papers in his hand. They looked like flyers for the bookshop. She could see the word Scott’s and a big, red 50% OFF plastered across the middle. ‘What are those?’ she asked, pointing at the flyers.

  ‘Stephanie’s idea. We are having a half price sale. We’ve not had a single customer over the last few days, what with all this Weaver business, so she thought a sale would entice people back into the shop. She thinks halving the prices will “defo double the customers.”’ He rolled his eyes at his own impression of their boss. ‘It’s not working though. Every time I approach someone they ask if we’re selling any of the Weaver’s books.’

  ‘Who is this guy, Weaver?’

  ‘Seriously, Anya? Where have you even been?’

  ‘Doing exams,’ she said, her eyebrow arching in disdain.

  ‘Hmm. Well personally, I think it’s some clever marketing scam. You know how they make things go viral just to boost sales? Well the story goes that four really old handwritten and hand-bound books were found in some abandoned manor house in North Yorkshire, and these books were so amazing, they’ve sold over ten million copies in the last eight weeks! The thing is, nobody knows who the author is. I mean, the books are so old he’s probably dead now! They did those carbon tests, but no one seems to be able to determine how long ago they were actually written, and the author didn’t use his name. All that’s on the covers, other than the titles, is “by The Weaver.” Of course, everyone’s just lapped the story up and now these books are selling faster than Fifty Shades! Seriously, people are obsessed!’

  ‘Ok. So, if the shop doesn’t have customers because they’re all buying the Weaver’s books from Chronicles, why don’t we just get some of his books in to sell at Scott’s?’

  ‘Do you really think I’d be out here trying to sweet talk old ladies into visiting our bookshop if it were that simple? Seriously, one of the ladies I spoke to kept me talking for almost half an hour about her dog’s bout of parvo! The dog was so mangy, all I kept thinking was please don’t mess on my shoes; I spent an hour polishing them last night.’

  ‘Michael, you’re veering.’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t stand dogs.’

  Funny, considering how similar you are, she thought to herself.

  ‘We can’t sell the Weaver’s books because the person who found them was James George, AKA Chronicles manager for their Little Wolf Green store, which means they have the exclusive rights to sell the books.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s who that smarmy guy is,’ she said, looking back through the shop window at the man in the suit. He was posing for a photo, holding someone’s baby. ‘That’s a little extreme isn’t it? It’s not like he actually wrote them or anything.’

  ‘I know, but the fan hysteria is close to insanity, and it’s only getting worse as the days go on. That’s why I’m so surprised you hadn’t heard anything about it. It’s hard to believe anyone anywhere hasn’t heard of the Weaver.’

  ‘Yeah, well, give it a few more weeks and that will be it. If there are only four books and if the guy’s already dead, something new will come along soon and take its place – it’s the circle of modern day life. Simon said he was already bored with it this morning before I knew what he was talking about. I’m sure if we just ride it out, people will forget and our customers will start coming back.’

  ‘Maybe...’ He didn’t sound convinced.

  She reached into her pocket and pulled out what money she had left from her first wage packet. She counted twenty-three pounds and thirty-two pence. Her hours had been sparse at the shop as she’d had so many exams in the last few weeks.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said, money in hand and heading towards the double automatic doors.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he called after her.

  ‘To see what all the fuss is about.’

  INSIDE, CHRONICLES BOOK Superstore was impressive, with its three floors of sleek, modern book displays and promotional banners full of famous faces. On the second floor was an Italian coffee shop, filling the air with the welcoming scent of espresso and freshly made pastries. It was completely different to Scott’s. There were colours splashed around everywhere and yet, there was no warmth. The place just felt... impersonal. At Scott’s, you really got the sense of discovering the next novel you read but here, they were practically throwing the books at you.

  Anya didn’t have to venture far before the Weaver’s books had found her. In the centre of the ground floor stood a vast arrangement of hardbacks, like a castle surrounded by a moat of customers, each one buzzing wi
th the knowledge that they had got their hands on a copy of Weaver’s already legendary tales.

  She fought her way to the front of the crowd. Michael was right – the fans were insane. Full blown discussions regarding characters from the books and their motives throughout the novels were going on all around her. On the other side of the display, two women were actually arguing at the tops of their voices. Having no idea what the books contained, most of what she heard was complete gobbledygook.

  Blocking out what one woman was quickly turning into a harangue, Anya focused on the Weaver’s books, scanning each of the titles. She wasn’t sure which one to pick up first – The Gift of Time, The Princess and the Peacock, Phoenix Tears or The Vampire’s Kiss. She closed her eyes, put out her hand and grabbed the first book that came into reach.

  Phoenix Tears.

  It certainly looked special, bound in leather and bedecked with a stunning portrayal of a phoenix. The tips of its feathers twisted themselves into wondrous and endless weaves and knots. The title was embossed in gold lettering along with the author’s pseudonym. She couldn’t take her eyes off the design and wondered if this was how the original had looked when James George had discovered it.

  Eventually, when she heard the crowd of adoring fans chasing James in her direction, Anya headed off to the tills, making a quick detour for a cheeky cinnamon pastry from coffee shop first. She could never resist cinnamon.

  ANYA AND MICHAEL walked back to Scott’s mostly in silence. Michael still tried to give out his flyers along the way, though most, Anya noticed, ended up in bins.

  She tried to read the synopsis on the back of the book she’d just bought, or at least, she pretended to try reading it. She didn’t take much of it in though – something about a King in a time of war.