Page 24 of An Enchanted Moment on Ever After Street
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end and I push myself upright and narrow my eyes at the screen. Whoever this is… they’re making jokes at their dead friend’s expense? And that wordplay…Once Upon Another Timeis full of wordplay like that – words spelled differently to match the look or sound of other words so it gives an almost poetic rhythm to the prose.
And twin… Unless he really does have a twin, why would anyone describe themselves that way? Unless… thisreallyis U.N.Known and he wants to be left alone?
And if he’s dead, why does no one know? Wouldn’t someone, somewhere, have informed his publisher and agent? Surely someone couldn’t die withoutanyoneknowing? And this person is obviously monitoring his email account. Whoever it is would have seen all the attempts to get in touch with him… He’s taken the time to respond to me, so why wouldn’t he send a quick response to other emails from other people, letting them know that U.N.Known is dead? Unless U.N.Known isnotreally dead, and… he just wants people to think he is.
A gut feeling tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye and I can’t stop myself pushing back on it.
Are you playing the clown? (Pronounced own not ow-n!)
Two seconds later, he replies again.
Ha ha.
You’re not really dead, are you?
Yes. You’re talking to a well-developed ghost.
I laugh out loud at the mental image that brings to mind, but there’s something so familiar in the tone of these messages. I’m almost positive this is U.N.Known himself. I reply again.
Well-developed as in large-chested?
A ghost of ample bosom, yes. I meant technologically advanced, obviously.
The reply makes me laugh again, and before I’ve formulated a response, my email pings again.
It’s been a while since I laughed so much. Cheers for that. Goodnight.
While I realise he’s shutting down the conversation, it isn’t quite as closed off as I expected. Maybe if I email him again some other time, we’ll progress beyond single-sentence exchanges, and I’ll get a bit closer to working out what’s going on and, if he isn’t dead, why the heck he’s telling people he is.
7
I’m already outside at 5p.m. a couple of nights later. The garden is looking so much better. I can see paving slabs again between the overgrown greenery, and there’s been so much interest in the book festival. The phone’s been ringing off the hook, even a reporter from the local newspaper wanted to interview me so they can feature it, and I’ve sold about twenty tickets today between in-person and online sales.
The wind blows and the sycamore tree at the edge of the forest sends out a scattering of helicopter seeds that twizzle to the ground. Mrs Potts pounces on one and wraps her paws around it, attacking it with teeth and claws as though it’s caused her the greatest imposition.
After satisfactorily killing the helicopter seed, she sits by the gatepost, looking up at it, like she’s remembering where Darcy was before and hoping she’ll see him again.
There’s something that appeals about Darcy, whether you’re humanorfeline. I look at the hedge. How can I be so eager to see someone I’ve neverseen?
It doesn’t feel like I’ve never seen him. I’ve got a picture forming in my mind, even though I haven’t the foggiest ideawhat he looks like. I picture someone tall; his voice sounds like it comes from somewhere above me when we’re standing opposite each other. And he must be fit and muscular from the outdoor work he does. His deep voice makes him sound rugged, and then I try to imagine what colour his eyes might be, what his hair might be like. It’s strange to lie awake at night thinking about someone, but not to know the most basic details about them.
‘Can I ask you something?’ I’m hacking down weeds and gradually forging a path towards the opposite side of the garden, and Darcy has come outside and is tending his roses on the other side of the hedge.
‘If you must.’ He doesn’t outright refuse, but his sigh quite clearly states his reluctance. ‘What?’
It’s a bark of a word that makes me flinch and reconsider. ‘I don’t know. Something. Anything. I want to know more about you than I currently do.’
I thought he might be more forthcoming if I left the question open-ended and let him offer something he feels comfortable talking about, but he remains stubbornly silent, and his only response is the scrape of his garden fork as he digs autumn fertiliser into his potted roses. ‘What do you look like?’
‘Unremarkable.’
‘Everyone looks unremarkable until they’re seen through the eyes of someone who thinks they’re remarkable…’ It’s my turn to sigh when he doesn’t respond. ‘Hair colour?’
‘Brown.’
Yet another gruff, one-word answer that makes me feel like I’m interrogating him. Maybe I’m on dangerous ground asking about his looks. I know he’s self-conscious ofsomethingbut I thought by askingaroundthat thing, he might open up a bit. ‘Is it long? I hear you running your hand through it sometimes when we’re talking; it sounds like it’s long.’
‘Long-ish, I guess? I’ve never tried to define it before. I just hack bits off when it starts getting in the way.’
