With a more specific date in mind Xanthe found it easier to prepare for her journey. Later that night, she went downstairs to the vintage clothing room. After thirty minutes’ rummaging and searching, the stock yielded a pale blue striped cotton maxi dress with smocking at the top which more or less conformed to Empire lines in its shape. She found a pair of laced leather ankle boots, wincing at the narrowness of them compared to her preferred Dr. Martens, but satisfied that they looked right enough. A navy shrug of felted wool worked surprisingly well. What proved harder was knowing what to do with her hair. She wrestled it into two plaits and coiled them one over each ear. The effect was without argument the least flattering hairdo she had ever worn, but it was silly to be vain when it would be under a hat anyway. Finding the headgear to hide it was more problematic. What she actually needed was something that could pass as a bonnet. There were any number of cloth caps, bowlers, and top hats, but none of those would do. In the end she took a straw sun hat with a wide brim and tied a broad pink ribbon over the top of it so that it held down the sides, securing it with a bow beneath her chin. Looking in the mirror it was hard not to laugh out loud at her reflection, and yet she was confident she had more or less achieved the look she needed. Having no idea what time of year or what weather she would meet she picked out a woolen wrap that would work as a shawl and a handbag with a brass clasp into which she dropped a drawstring bag containing coins of the right era, a silver-backed mirror which had some value and might work in a trading situation, a box of painkillers, and a small folding knife with a mother-of-pearl handle without any clear idea of what she would do with it beyond perhaps using it to escape from somewhere as it might stand in for a screwdriver or jimmy if necessary.
Xanthe took the clothes upstairs to her room. It was such a relief not to be having to hide everything she was doing from Flora. She didn’t want to wake her, as she knew she was struggling to sleep well after the fire, but in the morning she would show her what she had done to prepare for the journey. She hung her outfit up on the back of her bedroom door and then checked the wedding dress next to it. The beautiful lace of the bodice minutely vibrated beneath her fingers. As she climbed into bed the song of the gown grew louder, as if it sensed something was about to happen at last.
After a day of returning the shop to a state good enough to be opened, she felt slightly better about leaving Flora. It would only be for one night, she had promised herself that. She was so much more sure of what she was doing with the found things and the blind house now. This time would be different. This time Flora would know what was happening. This time, Xanthe would be in control. She would let the wedding dress lead her to its story and to Fairfax; she would find out what she could about what he was doing there, what people thought of him, what he was trying to achieve, and, vitally, where his vulnerability lay. She was painfully aware of the fact that she could do little to rid herself of him on this occasion. She would not face him head-on. Not yet. She knew he would be aware of her presence when she arrived in his time. All Spinners were able to detect others when they drew near. She must not allow frustration and anger to get the better of her. She must view this trip as a fact-finding mission, staying only long enough to arm herself with the information she needed to deal with him, and to see how doing so answered the call of the wedding dress. Then she would come home and she, Flora, and Harley would put their heads together and form a plan. The whole process was much slower than Xanthe would have liked. She wished Spinners would show her something more helpful, some way of getting to Fairfax. Some way of removing the threat that he posed to herself, her home, and those she cared about. But however much time she spent poring over it, studying its pages, willing it to reveal something more to her, all she got was the same story of the young Spinner who killed his abuser. And precisely what use that was she was yet to determine.
On the evening of her departure, Harley arrived to collect Flora, who had happily accepted Annie’s invitation to supper. Xanthe had thought Flora might resist the idea of being out of the house when her daughter was about to vanish through the portal in the garden, but Flora explained she would find it easier to be with friends and be busy. As her mother finished getting herself ready in her room upstairs, Harley drew Xanthe to one side in the kitchen, his voice low as he spoke to her.
“I confess I’m not happy with what you’re doing here, hen. Are you sure you’ve thought this through properly?”
“We’ve talked about this, Harley. I know the dangers. I’m ready for them.”
“The dangers of your actual time travel, aye, but what of your man Fairfax? He’s a nasty piece of work, lass. And he’s not above hurting people to get what he wants.”
“Yes, I know. It was my home he set fire to, remember?”
“So what do you think you’re going to do? Just march up to him and say ‘Excuse me, Mr. Time-Spinning Psychopath, would you mind handing over that astrolabe of yours so I know you’ll stop messing with the way of things, be a good boy, and leave me in peace? Oh, thank ye kindly!’ I can’t see that ending well, I’ll be honest with you,” he said, his bushy brows meeting in a deep frown.
“I’m not going to confront him, not if I can help it. I need to know what he’s doing in his own time. That way I can find out what he wants from me.”
“You still think it’s the book?” he asked, glancing in the direction of the cheerful singing coming from Flora’s room. “He risked losing it in that fire.…”
“I don’t think he meant to kill me, or destroy the shop. Not this time, at least.”
“Nothing you’re saying right now is making me feel even a wee bit better.”
She put her hand on his. “Don’t worry about me. Honestly, I’ll be careful.”
“I’d sleep a whole lot easier in my bed the night if you weren’t on your own. I feel pretty useless staying here while you go … back there,” he gestured toward the blind house.
“Actually, I think I do have someone helping me,” she told him.
“Oh? How so?”
“The picture of the ball.”
“The one with Funtime Fairfax in it?”
“I’ve been trying to work out how it got there. I mean, I know it wasn’t there before the fire. Mum thinks it was part of Mr. Morris’s stock and we missed it but I know it wasn’t there. We found it, or it found me, exactly when I needed it. When I needed to be sure following the call of the wedding dress was the right thing. It’s the most straightforward clue I’ve been given yet.”
“From another Spinner, d’you mean? But how?”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to drive myself crazy trying to work that out. But it does make sense, if you think about it. After all, if Fairfax can watch me from his time, if he can turn up here when it suits him but have his life somewhen else, well, why couldn’t another Spinner?”
“A friendly one? Aye, it’s a comforting thought, hen. You’re right about that.”
“There’s something else…”
“Oh? Should I brace myself here, lassie?”
“You’ll be pleased.… I’ve told my mum.”
“You have? Everything?”
“Pretty much.”
“A good decision, hen. How did she take it?”
“She was amazing. She is amazing, after all. I … I haven’t told her that you already know, though. I hope it doesn’t upset her that I told you first.”
“She’ll understand,” Harley assured her. “It’s your safety that’s the most important thing to her. She’ll get that I was helping you.”
Xanthe nodded, wanting to believe he was right. “Here, I want you to have this,” she said, dropping a spare key to the shop into his hand. “Just in case you need to, you know, help Mum.”
He closed his fingers around it, nodding, as they heard Flora returning.
“Here I am,” she called as she stick-stepped her way down the stairs, a fresh application of pink lipstick and a pair of oversized daisy earrings straight out of the sixties making her look younger and more upbeat than Xanthe had seen her in quite a while.
“You look lovely, Mum,” she told her, leaning in for a quick kiss and a hug. “Have a great evening.”
Flora leaned in for a hug. “I know there’s no point in my telling you to be careful, but … be careful, OK?”
“I will,” she promised.
“You sure you don’t want me to stay and help you get ready?”
“I’m better doing it on my own, I think. Staying focused, without goodbyes.”
“Fair enough,” her mother said with a slightly forced cheerfulness.
“Just be on your guard, Mum. Anything odd, talk to Harley.”
He offered Flora his arm. “Away with us, then. Annie’ll skin me alive if I get you there late for one of her famous salmon soufflé starters,” he said, steering her down the patched stairs, pausing to turn and give Xanthe an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
As soon as they had gone she hurried upstairs to her room, Pie at her heel. Excitement was mounting inside her, her stomach beginning to churn. It was as though she had been waiting for this moment, the moment to time-travel again, for such a long time. The thought of it, the thrill of it, the wonder of it, grew more intense with each occasion. She began her transformation into a nineteenth-century young woman. As she plaited her hair she noticed her hands had started to shake. As if aware of her nervousness, Pie jumped up to sit next to her on the bed, nudging her arm with her long, delicate nose.
“It’s OK, pooch. You’re going to stay here, safe and sound. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this. I know what I’m doing,” she added, as much to give herself courage as to reassure the somewhat puzzled dog. She succeeded in working her hair into its coils, securing it with an abundance of pins to guard against collapse. She wriggled out of her clothes and into the outfit, trying not to give in to the niggling worry that it wasn’t as convincing as she had first thought. After tying the bonnet ribbon she decided against looking in the mirror. This was no time to feel ridiculous. She double-checked the contents of her bag. Satisfied she had everything she needed, she moved to her bedside table and picked up Spinners. The thought of being parted from it caused her physical pain. For a moment she held it close to her heart, before wrapping it in a fine shawl and tucking it under a floorboard beneath her bed. Finally, she took the wedding dress down, draping it over her arm, noticing at once the smell of roses. She paused, breathing in the scent.
“OK,” she murmured. “I’m on my way.”
As she descended the stairs the pitter-patter of small paws alerted her to the fact that the dog was following her again.
“Oh no, you can’t come with me, girl. Come on, I’ll get you a biscuit.” She put her things down and nipped into the kitchen for one of Pie’s favorite dog chews and a handful of treats. “Pie?” she called. “Here, look…” She showed her the goodies and tempted her into the sitting room and onto the velvet sofa. “There you go,” she said, stroking her head and putting the treats in front of her. “You stay here. Flora will be home soon.” She waited until Pie was busy chewing and then tiptoed out of the room.
The back door was still propped ajar to help rid the hallway of the smell of smoke. Xanthe slipped out into the cool night, the garden a collection of shadows and soft pools of light where the clouds parted to allow moonbeams to fall. Although the shrubs and flowers were only just showing signs of spring, the sweet smell of roses grew stronger as she carried the dress across the lawn toward the stone shed. Soon she could hear the whispered entreaties of long-lost souls, clamoring to be heard above the high singing of the antique find and the ringing of church bells which were not miles but centuries distant. Unlike on previous occasions, she was prepared for all these things. She expected them. She accepted them as part of the process. She remembered the first time she had discovered the power of the blind house and had experienced the menacing presence of Mistress Merton. She recalled the force with which she had made her return journey after answering the call of the silver chatelaine, when she had been knocked unconscious, bruised and confused, unable to drag herself from the place for several hours. This time she did not feel afraid. She felt determined, focused, able. She knew now that the slight trembling of her hands and the racing of her pulse was not due to fear but excitement. She was a Spinner. This was her calling and her gift. It was what she was meant to do.
She pulled at the handle of the heavy oak door. Winter frosts and rain had seeped into the wood, causing it to swell, so that it took some effort to drag it open. From within came the aroma of damp earth and wet stone. Xanthe held the wedding dress close against her as she stepped inside, allowing the dark interior of the humble building to cloak her, not resisting it but choosing it. She closed her eyes, focusing all her thoughts on the dress, on the vision of the girl she had seen in the gardens of Corsham Hall, willing it to take her to the right place; to a place of safe landing. To where she needed to be. Just as the myriad voices crying out to her rose to maddening levels she felt herself beginning to fall, having the sensation that the ground under her feet was melting away. And as she let herself fall she was aware of a different energy in the space. It was not threatening, nor sad, but possessed of a vigor and spirit that seemed somehow at odds with the more somber mood that usually accompanied her as she traveled back through the centuries. She had no more time to question this curious aspect of her journey as she sped through nothingness, her senses swimming, descending ultimately into the full dark of swift and brief unconsciousness.
As she steadied herself, taking a breath, sensing firm ground beneath her boots once more, Xanthe struggled with the one aspect of time spinning she had yet to gain more accurate control over, namely the location of her arrival. She was still, for the most part, at the mercy of the found thing, it seemed to her. It would always take her to a place of importance for its story, but it would not be entirely of her choosing. As she blinked away the bleariness of unconsciousness, she decided that clues to the ability to determine her arrival point must lie within the pages of the Spinners book and she promised herself that she would discover them. She quickly realized that she was in a small street, an alleyway, roughly paved, narrow, and mercifully empty, given that it was daytime. Her sudden appearance would have been easily spotted by anyone had they been nearby, and extremely difficult to explain. As it was, there were no men or women to terrify with her ghostlike manifestation. What there was, however, was a small black dog with white paws.
“Pie!” Xanthe instinctively shouted the whippet’s name, causing it to bound over to her, tail wagging excitedly, apparently having suffered no ill effects during its unexpected spot of time traveling. “My God, what are you doing here?” Even as she formed the question she understood what had happened. The unaccustomed, agitated presence in the blind house now made sense. The dog must have abandoned its treats to follow her, wriggling through the slightly open door to the garden, and running into the stone shed at the last moment. The enormity of what had just happened was hard for her to process. She had taken objects with her back in time on each occasion without difficulty, but the fact that another living thing could travel with her was a revelation. It meant that it wasn’t necessary to be a Spinner to make the journey, so long as you were with one, in the blind house, and being called by a found thing that was singing. More pressingly, she knew that Flora would miss the dog as soon as she returned home after her supper with Annie and Harley. She would be frantic. A search would be set up. With mounting frustration, Xanthe saw that she would have to cut her trip short, or at least keep it as short as possible. She silently cursed herself for not making sure the back door of the house was shut. Pie, as if sensing she was in trouble, flattened her ears against her head and gazed up at Xanthe in a way that was hard to resist.
“It’s OK,” she said with a sigh, stroking the dog gently, “it’s not your fault. I should have been more careful. Looks like I’m going to have your invaluable help this time, eh? I can’t wait to tell Harley about this!” As she said the words another consequence of Pie having followed her hit home. She could bring someone with her! The dog had suffered no ill effects, so surely it would be safe to bring a human. “Mum!” she murmured to herself, excitement growing at the thought that she could actually show Flora what it was she did. Suddenly Pie’s impulsive behavior seemed like less of a nuisance and more of a blessing. Having no lead, she had no choice but to trust to the dog’s desire to be with her. She straightened her bonnet and smoothed down her skirts before addressing her unexpected companion. “Come along, then. Stay close, little one. At least there won’t be any traffic.”
When they emerged from the quiet of the alleyway into the broad, busy street, Xanthe realized the inaccuracy of this statement. It was true, there were no cars of course, but there were carriages of all shapes and sizes, flying up and down the cobbled road without any apparent system, whizzing past elderly pedestrians, and hawkers with handcarts, and darting small children, and striding businessmen, at dangerous speeds. No one else seemed in the least perturbed by what looked to her to be a highly dangerous situation. Pie was alarmed by the horses and started to bark at them, causing a passing couple to turn and mutter their disapproval. Xanthe scooped up the dog, tucking it under her arm, and set off with a purposeful stride along the edge of the street. She reasoned that if she looked confident and as if she were going about her legitimate business she would appear less suspicious and out of place, even if her clothes were not as perfectly in keeping as she would have wished. As she walked she looked about her, searching for what it was the wedding dress wanted her to notice. On her previous trips she had always arrived within sight of something significant, but that significance had not always been immediately obvious. She had hoped to turn up in the garden of Corsham Hall, but here she was in a small town. It looked familiar and yet not. She reminded herself that if this was indeed the early 1800s there would have been a great deal of changes and new building before her own time, so it was not surprising that it was hard to place. She scoured the street. For most of the length of it there were buildings of pale golden stone on either side, most of which were shops, some were inns, others offices of some sort. Halfway down, the buildings of the far side gave way to railings which first enclosed a small park and then the edge of a churchyard, with the imposing church set back among tall yew trees. The evergreens gave no indications as to the time of year, but the fullness of the blossom on the flowering rhododendrons suggested late spring or early summer. It was certainly quite warm. Xanthe’s felted shrug began to make her feel clammy. She slowed her pace a little, breathing in the aroma of warm bread from the bakery, and pausing outside a silversmith to read the name of the proprietor and study the pretty pieces on display. Nothing spoke to her. Nothing seemed connected to the dress. Or to Fairfax. Pie wriggled in her arms as they approached a butchers’ shop.
“This is no time for snacking,” Xanthe told her. As she glanced at the sausages that were the focus of the dog’s attention she saw, reflected in the windowpane, the shop on the opposite side of the street. Its name was reversed, so difficult to read, but what it sold was so beautifully arranged in its bowfronted window it caused her to gasp. Clutching Pie tightly, she turned and dashed across the street, dodging a smart gig pulled by a wild-eyed chestnut horse, and avoiding a cart laden with potatoes. She reached the shop a little breathless and stood gazing at the display. This was clearly a dress shop of great elegance and no doubt expense. There were two mannequins clothed in summer outfits of muslin and cotton and voile, one accessorized with a parasol, the other sporting an elaborate straw bonnet. They were beautiful, exquisitely detailed, and finely worked, but what had caught Xanthe’s eye, what now made her smile broadly, was the bolt of fine white organza, partly unrolled, the fabric spilling prettily beneath a small sample of the most delicate, most intricately patterned lace. The exact same lace of the Corsham Hall wedding dress.
She took a step back and looked up at the sign above the shop, tweaking the brim of her bonnet to shield her eyes against the strong sunshine. PINKERTON’S FINE FASHIONS AND HABERDASHERY was inscribed in flowing letters, sophisticated gilding making the words look every bit as important as they sounded. Xanthe pushed the door and went inside.
The interior of the shop more than lived up to the promise of its facade. Tasteful use had been made of the space so that while there was plenty of tempting stock on display, the room felt refined and uncluttered. A broad, high counter of burnished walnut ran across the back of the shop, and behind it a wall of small cupboards, each with brass handles and label plates bearing cursive descriptions of the contents: buttons, tortoiseshell; fasteners, silk; binding, one inch; hooks, small; and so on. The underneath of the counter was glass-fronted and housed a splendid collection of ribbon of all widths, colors, and textures. These had been ordered by hue, so that they presented the whole spectrum of vibrant colors and their more subtle pastel cousins. The left wall was taken up with bolts of fabric lain horizontally on shelving that appeared to slide out when required. The far side of the shop was given over to three more beautifully dressed mannequins. Two wore day summer dresses of muslin of powder blue and palest mint green, one with a full-length open-fronted pelisse as a layer against chills. The third displayed a silk gown that looked suitable for a ball, perhaps for a more mature lady, with a voile insert, or chemisette, which adapted what would otherwise have been a revealing neckline. Beside these exquisite outfits there was a regal blue-and-gilt chaise. Xanthe imagined highborn and wealthy customers sitting there having dresses brought to them, choosing fabric and designs, the cost of which must have been considerable.
“May I be of assistance?” A man’s voice, low and soothing, alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. Her improvised bonnet effectively blinkered her, so that she had to turn around to see the chicly dressed figure who had bobbed up from behind the counter. She watched him take in her imperfect ensemble and the dog she was holding and saw his expression harden from one of obsequious welcome to displeasure.
“Good morning to you,” she said, attempting to rediscover the patterns of speech that sounded overly formal to her own ears but that she hoped would pass for authentic in the time she was now inhabiting. It was only after she had uttered her greeting that she wondered if it was, in fact, morning. The man did not react so she pressed on. “There was an item in the window which caught my eye. You have a sample of particularly fine lace in your display.”
The shop owner’s pride in his wares overcame his snobbery so that his face was transformed by a smile of excitement. “Ah yes! The Flemish lace. There is none finer to be found, even in the London establishments. Indeed, they clamor for it, as do all ladies of refinement and good taste. And naturally, since the news that none other than Petronella Wilcox has chosen our lace for her wedding gown … it goes without saying, demand is far outstripping supply.”
“The Wilcox family of Corsham Hall?”
“It could be no other.”
Xanthe moved closer to the window and leaned toward the lace, listening to the high notes of its song as it sensed her presence. The shopkeeper sprinted from his place behind the counter in a flash, placing himself between her and the fabric as if he feared her touch might somehow contaminate it.
“I must tell you that such workmanship commands a high price.” He paused, apparently not wishing to give offense, yet willing to risk it to protect his precious lace and no doubt the superior reputation of his shop. Xanthe evidently did not look like the sort of woman who could afford to buy anything more than a yard of ribbon.
“I would expect nothing less than the best of everything for the Wilcox family,” she told him. “Which is of course why the bride-to-be came to Pinkerton’s for her wedding dress.” As he beamed at the compliment she asked, “Remind me, if you would be so kind, what is the date of the wedding?”
Here his professionalism reasserted itself. “I fear I am not at liberty to divulge details of a client’s account. You must surely understand that Pinkerton’s prides itself on its unfailing discretion.”
“Of course, I merely…”
But he had made his judgment of Xanthe. He held up his hand. “I believe there are other establishments to be found in Bradford-on-Avon which might be better suited to your … requirements,” he told her.
“Bradford? This is Bradford-on-Avon?” She could not stop herself asking. She needed to be certain.
The shopkeeper, understandably, viewed Xanthe as if she had taken leave of her senses, for why would she not know where she was? Wordlessly he opened the door and stood holding it open. Clearly, their conversation was at an end.
Xanthe bobbed him a shallow curtsey and hurried outside. She looked at the street anew, trying to see in it buildings that were familiar to her. But she had only ever seen the small town in the seventeenth century. She wished now she had been there in her own time, as it was known for its graceful Georgian houses and streets. And its river. She strode out, heading down the hill, which must surely mean toward the Avon. Two more turns and she could smell the water and then see the bridge. The bridge with the domed blind house, the cruel little jail, built into it. The blind house that had, briefly, held Samuel. Now it was all so clearly the same place she wondered she had not spotted it at once. If she had arrived within sight of that bridge she would have known instantly. It was a reminder of how much building had gone on in the intervening centuries that the little town had grown almost beyond recognition. Pie had become tired of being carried and leapt from her arms, trotting off down the cobbles in the direction of the bridge.
“Pie, wait!” Xanthe ran after her. The sunshine had brought out more people so that she had to utter beg-pardons and excuse-mes as she weaved her way through the couples and families intent on taking in all that Bradford had to offer. Pie came to a halt at the blind house, pushing her nose through the heavy bars of the door, wagging her tail as if responding to someone inside. Xanthe grabbed her collar.
“I can’t cope with you running off like that. Here, keep still.” She untied the ribbon that was keeping her hat on her head, bending down to secure it to Pie’s collar. Unfortunately, the ribbon was a major part of what transformed a modern straw hat into a bonnet, so that it now flapped with its wide brim unfashionably shady and broad. Trying not to dwell on how she looked, Xanthe peered inside the lockup. She was surprised to see that it was in fact empty. She looked at the dog in a new light. Was she too somehow sensitive to things that had gone before? To people who were no longer there? She picked her up again and turned on her heel, eager to see the other building that had played such an important part in her life. There it stood. The pretty chocolate house looked almost completely unchanged. The heavy stone tiles of the swaybacked roof still sat low over the honey-colored walls. The small square windows, two up two down, were slightly more dipped at the top and their frames painted with thick black paint, but otherwise looked as they had done when Xanthe first found the place. There were baskets of flowers on the windowsills and at the wooden and glass front door. She experienced a pang of sadness, and recognized it as a nostalgia, a slight longing, for her friend and mentor, Lydia Flyte. How much she had learned from the old woman. How close she had come to losing her. If it hadn’t been for her the Spinners would have been even more of a mystery to Xanthe. And, of course, she would not have learned the very best way to make the perfect hot chocolate, seventeenth-century style. It was then that she noticed the words on the sign hanging above the door and her heart skipped a beat. She kissed Pie’s head in celebration.
“Well, girl, looks like you are about to meet someone very special,” she said, before walking briskly in the direction of the place that now declared itself to be THE BRIDGE TEAROOMS—PROPRIETOR: MISS LYDIA FLYTE.