‘ACHOO!’ I threw my arm over my face as I sneezed. The dust in the enormous attic was getting up my nose – literally.
‘God bless you.’ Jane floated past me as I squeezed between two ancient bookcases and shone my flashlight on an old roll-top desk.
‘Bless you,’ echoed Oliver, oblivious to Jane’s presence. He ducked under a cobweb and navigated his way towards me. ‘Found anything?’
‘No carving on this one, but it’s the first desk I’ve seen here. The owner said she thought the one we wanted was under a dust-sheet… somewhere in this mess.’
Oliver, Jane and I gazed around the vast space, crammed with forgotten treasures – at least that’s how the owner had described the attic’s contents when she’d answered our online ad. Like the other homeowners before her, she was eager for the thousand pounds on offer if her desk proved to be the one we needed. Two days, twelve houses and five attics since beginning our search we’d seen a dozen carved desks but only two had been embellished with Green Man carvings and neither of those had been made of oak.
It was now Sunday, which meant we had just three days left before St Swithun’s Day dawned and we needed to break the curse. So far we’d been to Dorset, Cornwall and Gloucestershire, so I was grateful that this house was in Reading and a little closer to home. As the hours of fruitless searching ticked by I tried not to give in to the mounting pressure. But it was hard not to think of Aunt Butters, slowly being pulled into the Phantral Realm, and of Jane, kept from her family for two hundred years, and of time running out.
Oliver, however, showed no sign of frustration at our lack of progress but remained endlessly calm and more thoughtful than any guy I’d ever known. I couldn’t help liking him, which still made me think there had to be something wrong with him. I had a track record with these things, after all. Still, it seemed to me that Oliver was becoming more Darcy-like by the day.
‘Maybe the desk is under there.’ I pointed to an enormous grimy dust-sheet.
Oliver lifted a corner and shone his flashlight underneath. ‘Be careful, Cass, there’s a lot of stuff stacked under here and we don’t want it coming down on top of us.’
‘Any little green men?’ I joked and gently tugged on the cloth. It snagged on something and the pile of furniture began to wobble. Oliver skipped nimbly sideways while I jumped backwards, tripped, and landed flat on my back on the floor. There was a sound of snapping wood and the rasp of ripping fabric as the dust-sheet slid away and an enormous wardrobe, with one shattered leg, toppled into view. It fell towards me with its doors flapping like a demented bat.
Jane screamed. Oliver flung his body over mine and threw his arms around my head. I tried desperately to push him off before the wardrobe hit but it was too late.
Everything went dark.
At first I thought I must be dead. Then slowly I became aware of Oliver’s mouth against my neck and his breath warm on my skin. It felt good. I turned my head, and my nose encountered Oliver’s hand. His arms still cradled my head and his body was pressed against mine, chest to chest, locked together in that strange dark space. It took me a moment to realize we were inside the wardrobe. It had fallen right on top of us, its doors miraculously swinging all the way open as it came down; covering, but not crushing us.
‘You okay?’ Oliver’s voice sounded in my left ear.
‘I think so. You?’
‘Fine. That was a close call. I thought for sure you’d be flattened.’
‘You saved me.’ I wriggled my arms free and hugged him. ‘If you hadn’t been here—’
‘But I was here.’ He lifted his head from my neck, his stubble grazing my cheek, and I suddenly had an intense need to kiss him. I turned my face towards his and brushed my lips across his mouth. His whole body tensed, and for one horrible, heart-stopping moment I thought I’d read him wrong. The blood rushed to my cheeks, and then Oliver’s mouth came down on mine.
In that strange dark space, cocooned against the world, Oliver Carling kissed me as I’d never been kissed before. The erotic sensation of his lips tasting, sucking and biting mine was delicious. I opened my mouth and deepened the kiss. A sensual heat suffused my body as our tongues entwined and I groaned with pleasure.
Someone spoke. ‘Cassandra? Are you all right? Pray tell me you are not dead or injured.’ Jane’s voice, rather tremulous, came from outside the wardrobe.
Regretfully, I withdrew my lips from Oliver’s.
Oliver lifted his head. ‘You okay?’
I kissed him again. ‘I think maybe we should get out of here.’
‘I guess so, though I was kind of enjoying myself.’
I laughed. ‘Me too. I’d probably stay here all day, only I think I’m about to start sneezing again.’
I sensed his grin. ‘I don’t think there’s enough room in here for that. I’d better get this off us.’ Oliver pushed against the wardrobe. It barely moved. ‘Heavy. Maybe if we push together?’
Just then, Jane’s face, pale green with worry, appeared inside the wardrobe. ‘Thank goodness you are alive, Cassandra! And Oliver, too. I was most anxious when I saw him cast himself upon you. So courageous. I trust he did not cause himself any lasting hurt?’
‘You’re okay, aren’t you, Oliver?’ I asked, as much to reassure myself as Jane.
‘I’m fine, but we need to lift this wardrobe.’
‘Do you know, Cassandra,’ said Jane, ignoring my need for freedom. ‘I think Oliver is neither Mr Darcy nor Edward Ferrars, but Mr Knightley. Not Mr John Knightley, you understand, but Mr George Knightley. From Emma.’ Jane smiled at me.
Her smile vanished when Oliver kissed me again. I heard her shocked exclamation before she disappeared.
‘Ready?’ Oliver seemed reluctant to let me go.
I shifted into position. ‘Ready.’
‘Okay, one, two, three, push!’ He made a noise like a weightlifter while I pushed with all my might. The wardrobe tipped onto its side and we were free. Oliver pulled me to my feet and we stood there looking at each other in the torchlight while Jane hovered overhead. He was so covered in dust that his blond hair looked brown and his face was smeared with dirt. I knew I must look just as bad, but it didn’t matter. Not when Oliver was smiling at me like he’d just won the lottery.
‘Okay?’ he said.
‘Better than,’ I replied.
We went back to work.
HALF an hour later, my phone buzzed. ‘Hello, Bishop Stiles––’
But it wasn’t the Bishop.
‘Och, thank heaven you’re there, Miss Cassandra!’
‘Mrs McGurk? Is that you?’
‘Aye, it is, and that worried about the Bishop I hardly know which way to turn. I’d be asking Lady Butters’s advice only she’s still poorly. I had a premonition that wicked book would bring trouble. I’ve always been fey, you see. To think I’d live to see the Bishop in such a state!’
I’d never heard her so frantic. I latched onto two words. ‘Wicked book? What book?’
‘That terrible big black one. His Lordship’s been up all night with it and he’s not been himself since. I don’t know what to do, Miss Cassandra,’ she wailed and I heard her burst into tears.
‘All right, Mrs McGurk. Hang in there, we’re coming.’ I hung up.
‘Oliver!’ I yelled. ‘We have to go!’
He emerged from behind a pile of boxes. ‘But we haven’t finished—’ He stopped. ‘What’s wrong, Cass. Not Lady B?’
‘No, it’s the Bishop. I think he’s found the Grimoire.’